


King and Lionheart

by esplanade



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 17:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esplanade/pseuds/esplanade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe bravery is just a kind word for stupidity."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Element of Blank

**Author's Note:**

> Forever ago, someone on tumblr requested a Hunger Games AU. It got out of hand.
> 
> This is a Sherlock Hunger Games AU set during a Quarter Quell, spoilers for season two only. This was written before season three was released, which is why some things (mainly the structure of the Holmes family and details about Mary Morstan) don't match up. A couple of s3 details have been incorporated, but nothing of any significance. Any elements from Sherlock or The Hunger Games series that are included/excluded/altered were done so deliberately. 
> 
> The whole thing has long since been written, but it updates weekly on Mondays, and is about 40k words in total.
> 
> [An Element of Blank](http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/cs6/blank.html) 

“ _And now we honor our third Quarter Quell. On the seventy-fifth  
_ _anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their actions against the Capitol  
_ _have consequences for every person in Panem, the tributes will be reaped from the  
_ _general population, regardless of the age or gender of the individuals chosen.”_

 

 

John woke to starvation clawing inside of him.

He could hear the faint clinking of bottles in the next room. Harry, desperately searching for a drink that she wouldn't find. She'd gone without for two days now. While John didn't approve of her drinking, he would gladly have supplied her had he been able to, just to keep away the withdrawal symptoms. But there was no money to be spent on an addiction. He had to make sure they stayed alive, not inebriated.

Harry was naturally not enthused by John's priorities.

John looked around the dirty little room, eyes lingering on the cracks running through the window. The wind seeped through them. They would have to be fixed before winter. There was only the faintest hint of sunlight forcing its way through the dirt and grime on the glass. John pushed himself up and reached for his bag. He would have to hurry if he wanted to get past the fences unseen.

As he slipped outside, he caught a glimpse of Harry, her hair dirty and pulled back out of her face, eyes bloodshot, tearing through a chest that she knew had no bottles in it. But she checked anyway.

She had become so much worse after Clara died. Clara had worked in the black market for as long as John could remember. One day, there was a raid, and she had been one of the casualties. John had had to drag Harry away. The image of Clara's body being removed was still burned on both their brains.

John wished he could have done more for them that day. But he had so little to work with. He did what he could, but he often felt it wasn't enough.

He rested his hand on the dead section of the electrified fence, and couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if one day he touched it and it was live again.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock watched as John eased through the hole in the fence at the edge of the District. Every morning the local healer would set out early to try and scrounge up enough food for him and his alcoholic sister. Since Sherlock almost never slept, he was the only one to ever witness this ritualistic devotion.

He watched John disappear into the woods, and for a moment thought about following him, joining him. But then he remembered his obligations, and he knew that there would be no way around them. Especially not today.

***                    *                    ***

John sat on a fallen tree turning the gun over in his hands. It was his prized possession, passed down to him by his father. When he was very little, John had asked why healers would need guns, and his father hadn't answered. John had seen the extra years etched into his face, not understanding. Now he knew. Sometimes there was nothing left you could do for someone except end their pain as quickly as possible. Bullets were hard to come by, so it was always a last resort, but there had been a few times over the years where mercy called for them. He always carried it in the woods as a safety measure. He rarely used it to hunt. It was hard for him to see the pistol as an instrument for killing when for so long it had been an instrument to ease suffering for lost causes.

He couldn't decide if he should risk using the gun today. It was the morning of the Reaping, and his hand was a little shaky. There would be more people coming in and out of the District, a greater chance of the gunfire being heard, and a greater chance of being seen with whatever he killed.

“You're thinking too hard again,” a voice said from a few feet away. John looked up and saw Mary smiling down at him, bow slung over her shoulder. Mary was a strong, athletic woman, blonde and tan, usually wearing a smirk. She had a fiery personality, and John always thought that her enthusiasm was her way of coping. He also believed it could potentially get her into trouble.

They had been hunting together for years. Mary had her own family to look after, but the two of them usually worked together, and more than once they'd managed to catch enough to share with other families.

“I'm just trying to decide how much to try and bring in today. You know the streets will be more crowded than usual.”

Mary flopped down next to him. “Yes, the District will be crawling with Capitol morons, strutting around in the latest fashions,” she said, her voiced laced with disdain.

“Aren't you worried?”

“John, look. We all have an equal shot this year, yes. But there's nothing we can do about it.” The recently announced stipulation for the Reaping had been that the two tributes selected could be of any age or any gender. The Capitol said it was to remind them that their actions had consequences for everyone, but all it told John was that even surviving into adulthood didn't guarantee your safety from the Capitol's practices. And he had been horrified at the implications. What if the names drawn were, for instance, a strong healthy man and a four year old girl? It was drastically unfair, he thought. Everyone had an equal chance at the Reaping, yes, but that guaranteed that there would be nothing close to an equal chance in the arena. “Personally, I like my chances. The odds are in my favor for once.” She grinned.

“But Mary, there are some people who shouldn't even have a chance at being tributes. Awful as it is, at least on a regular year you knew it would be someone between twelve and eighteen.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “John, I know you want to save everyone, to fix things. But some things can't be fixed, and you can't protect every person in the District, as much as you try to. All we can do is keep fighting to the best of our abilities until we can escape.”

John scoffed. “Escape? There is no escape from this, Mary.”

“It won't always be like this.”

“Don't talk like that. You know damn well that the people aren't strong enough to stand up for themselves. The Capitol has made sure of that.” Mary had always been thrilled by the prospect of a new government. She had a revolutionary spirit. And while John could respect that spirit in other people, he simply wasn't hopeful enough to entertain the idea himself.

“Well, then. Let's prove them wrong.” She grabbed her bow and led the way into the woods.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock walked across the Square in front of the Hall of Justice where an army of workers was finishing setting up the stage in front of the city hall building. He pushed past them to go inside, the sudden transition from dusty to clean more of a shock than ever. Sherlock had spent the better part of the last few years in this building. His brother had seen to that, much to his chagrin.

Sherlock was the product of an affair between a Capitol ambassador and Sherlock's mother. Mycroft was the man's legitimate child, born and raised in the Capitol. Sherlock had never even met their father, but had a feeling that if he was even remotely like Mycroft, he wouldn't have liked him much anyway. The man sent enough money to keep Sherlock and his mother alive. When she died, the money stopped for a few horrible years, and then was reinstated by Mycroft. Sherlock was never sure if he did it out of guilt or a twisted sense of misplaced familial obligation.

Mycroft himself was a minor government official. Sherlock sometimes doubted the validity of that statement, always believing that he had more power than he was willing to let on. For the last few years though, Mycroft had come from the Capitol to act as escort for the District's tributes. Every time, he would insist on seeing Sherlock, spouting words of “brotherly concern,” which Sherlock mostly ignored.

Mycroft had also “graciously” gotten Sherlock work. Well known for his intellect, Sherlock was ordered to assist the Peacekeepers in their investigations. He felt like a traitor most days, and it did nothing for the general public's opinion of him. But he did his best to deliberately lead them astray when he could manage it. And he couldn't complain that his quality of life was higher than most people's.

His pride wanted to ignore every handout from his brother, and while he disliked the set up, it was better than starving to death.

Sherlock hadn't seen Mycroft since the previous year. That was one of the only perks of his brother being a Capitol tool. He never had to see him except when he came in on government business.

He shut the office door behind him and cast a distasteful glance at his brother, who stood across the room wearing an absolutely atrocious dark blue suit textured to look like snakeskin.

“Trying to imitate your animal counterpart, Mycroft?”

“Good to see you as well, Sherlock.”

***                    *                    ***

John and Mary met up on the way to the Reaping later that day. Harry trailed behind them, hands trembling from nerves and withdrawal. She had that spacey look in her eyes that told John she wasn't truly all there.

“She been like that all day?”

John nodded, stepping aside for a pack of children racing past him in their Reaping day best. “All week, really. I mean, you know how little we've been able to bring in lately. There hasn't been enough lying around for her to trade it in for alcohol. I just want her to get through this day. Then I'll strap her down in bed if that's what it takes to get her some rest.”

John squinted in the sun. The Square was filled to the brim. He could see the bowl of names on the stage, not separated into male or female this year. Just one containing every name of every person in the District old enough to walk. He saw an old woman leading a child to the appropriate line and tried to push away the mental image of the woman fighting anyone to the death.

Standing nonchalantly on the other side of the Square was a tall man in a dark purple shirt. He looked terribly bored. John recognized him. He had seen Sherlock around before. No one in District 12 especially liked him. There were all sorts of rumors about what his actual job was, and most people thought best to not trust him at all. He had, as far as John knew, no family or friends to speak of. He may have been unlikeable, but John couldn't judge him for whatever work he did. They all did what they had to to get by.

John's attention was drawn away by a flash of light from the stage.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock rolled his eyes as the sunlight reflected off of Mycroft's favorite prop, a metallic gold umbrella that he twirled around in swooping circles as he walked to the microphone.

“Good afternoon and happy Hunger Games, everyone! And may the odds be ever in your favor.” With a snap of his wrist, Mycroft started the yearly propaganda film. Sherlock thought this was the worst part of the Reaping, sitting around, pretending to listen to the history that everyone could recite already. It was terribly dull. And then came the few words from the President. Sherlock found himself unnerved by the eyes of Moran staring down at all of them, smiling as amiably as possible for a man who allowed government approved mass murder every year. Then the video shut off and Mycroft began to speak, making Sherlock wish for Moran back.

“As you all know, this is our 75th Hunger Games. Recently, the special rules for the Quarter Quell were announced, and I know how excited you all are to hear the results of today's Reaping. So, let's get right to it, shall we?” With a pursed-lip smile, Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his free arm and reached in for his first slip of paper. “Now for our first tribute from District 12, the honor goes to...Harriet Watson.”

The Square remained silent, as they did every year, as Mycroft's eyes searched the crowd for the tribute. Sherlock craned his neck and followed his gaze, his eyes landing on the woman. She was the healer's sister. Everyone in town knew that she was about one more drink of whiskey away from liver failure. Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't even sure if she was aware of what had just happened. She wouldn't last long.

Her brother looked terrified. Sherlock had never seen anything resembling panic on the man's face before. The blonde woman he always hunted with grabbed his arm, sympathetic while simultaneously reminding him to not do anything stupid.

One of the Peacekeepers came and began to lead Harry up through the crowds. She numbly obeyed.

When they were about halfway to the stage, Sherlock saw a change come over John's face. The panic had vanished. And he called out, “I volunteer!”

There were few things that could shock Sherlock Holmes, but he felt his jaw drop as he watched the healer push his way through to his sister. Harry began sobbing and shaking her head, trying to get him to take it back, but he wouldn't, and eventually one of the Peacekeepers grabbed her by the arms while the other led John up the rest of the way to the stage. Harry went into hysterics as she was being pulled away.

_Maybe Mycroft is right. Maybe bravery is just a kind word for stupidity._

***                    *                    ***

John tried to focus on his breathing as he walked across the stage. The only sound he could hear in the Square was Harry crying somewhere in the crowds. It hadn't even been a conscious decision when he'd volunteered. It was a given. Harry would never stand a chance in the arena.

He walked up to the Capitol escort, a prim and pompous looking man who asked for his name, and he replied quietly, and was then taken off to the side to wait for the second name to be called.

_Please, God, no children. I will never be able to kill a child._

“And our second tribute from District 12...” John looked up. The man paused, staring at the slip of paper as if it were in a foreign language. His grin faded. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John looked across the Square and saw the man walk toward the stage, refusing to let the Peacekeepers come get him. He didn't look scared or even worried, as most did, as John was sure he looked now. He seemed resigned, indifferent. Sherlock walked up toward the escort and stared him down. The man from the Capitol reached out to shake his hand as he had with John, and said in a hollow voice, “Congratulations, brother dear.” Sherlock only looked down at his hand and scoffed before walking away to stand by John. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock and tried to pretend he hadn't just witnessed the most dysfunctional family reunion in the history of the world.

***                    *                    ***

John sat in the little living room, waiting for his last visits from his friends and loved ones. Sherlock would be going through the same thing somewhere else in the building. John wondered how he was handling it. Sherlock Holmes had always seemed a detached sort of man, but how could anyone remain so cold and objective when they essentially heard they were going to die? John didn't have any delusions that he was going to come back from this. He could hope, of course, but the reality was that District 12 was not known for its winning tributes.

The door opened and a Peacekeeper let Harry slink in. Her eyes were red from crying, and when John stood up, she rushed to him and collapsed against him, holding on to him like she had no intention of letting him go. He put his arms around her and tried to calm her down, to no avail.

“John, what were you thinking?! Why did you do it!”

“I wasn't going to send you in to die, Harry.” She pulled back and stared up at him.

“But you'll send in yourself? John, I'm not the only one here who depends on you. What will we do if we lose you?”

He gave her a weak smile. “Then I guess I'll have to win so you don't have to find out.” He knew she could hear the lie in his voice, but the words seemed to comfort her all the same.

She hugged him tight again and whispered, “Be careful, John.”

And then the Peacekeepers came and took her away. A few minutes later, they let in Mary.

“John, you idiot, you are going to get yourself killed.” She stood a few feet in front of him, arms crossed.

“What did you want me to do, Mary? I wasn't going to send in a sad alcoholic like Harry. I stand a better chance than she does.”

“You stand no chance, John. No one from our District ever survives. And the other man that was chosen? Sherlock Holmes? He's smart, John, and from what I hear, he won't hesitate before throwing you to the wolves the first chance he gets.”

“We don't know him well enough to judge, Mary.”

“You've always been a good man, John. But that's not going to help you now. Remember, when you're in that arena, the people you see there aren't people anymore. They're animals. And we hunt animals. Don't let your healer sympathies get in the way of protecting yourself.”

“I won't.”

Mary blinked back a few stubborn tears and shook her head. “I wish I believed that.” She knew that if there were women or children from the other Districts left in the arena with him that he would sooner kill himself than them.

“Promise me you'll look after Harry while I'm gone. If anything happens to me and I don't come back, please take care of her.”

Mary nodded. “Of course. I'll do whatever I can.” She gave him a kiss on his cheek and said, “As long as you promise me that you'll try to win.”

“I promise.”

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock heard the muffled crying as someone walked past the door in the hall. Had to be the sister. Sherlock leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling. He hoped it wouldn't take much longer for John Watson to go through his loved ones. Sherlock was getting bored. It was so tedious, pretending that someone would come. He knew better. No one would see him off. The only family he had was putting the finishing touches on the paperwork before they headed off to the train. And there was no one else in the District who would miss him. He was sure that, as far as they were concerned, he was as good as dead already.

 

* * *

 

John stared out the window of the train, watching the scenery fly by him. Sherlock Holmes sat a few seats down the table, picking at his food with distaste. John had thought it was delicious, but somehow the effect was ruined by what waited at the other end of the rail line.

The doors at the end of the room whooshed open and the escort from the Capitol, who Sherlock had called Mycroft, strode in, umbrella still hooked over his arm.

“Enjoying the delicacies, you two?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. John tried to smile. Mycroft took a seat on a plush sofa beneath the window.

“So, where's our mentor, then? I thought you said she was coming?” John asked.

“Get right to the point, do you? She will be along shortly. She was rather, how shall we say, indisposed.”

Even as he said it, the doors opened again and a woman in a long bathrobe came in and took a seat across from John and Sherlock at the table. She had a great mass of dark hair hanging loose around her and was wearing a self-satisfied smirk on her face. John had heard stories about Irene Adler. She was considered wild and uncontrollable back in the District. But she had at some point had enough of a handle on life to win the Games, at least. John could remember the year she was chosen. She had been fourteen at the time and had gone into it with all the confidence and vitality of a Career. John didn't watch the footage, but he had seen her after she came back. She spent her life as a victor drowning in debauchery and drug use. He'd seen her around the District with her “friend” Kate and her collection of syringes. But John was sure that was her way of coping with what she must have seen in the arena, so he couldn't really fault her.

She reached across the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. Mycroft looked at her disapprovingly. “Decided to finally join us, Miss Adler?”

“Oh, don't be so grumpy, Iceman. I was tied up. Literally. Coincidentally, there is the cutest little worker bee a few cars down.” She leaned her arms on the table and stared hard at John and Sherlock. “Hmm, I've certainly worked with less.” She pointed at John. “You're the one who volunteered for a family member, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“That will look very good with the sponsors. They'll adore it. We'll play the martyr angle.”

“What about survival skills?”

“Darling, that's what we're doing. Think of this. Who usually wins?”

“The first two Districts.”

“Right. And what do those two have that none of the others do?” There was silence. John and Sherlock glanced at each other, not knowing what she was getting at. “Money. Money earns you an image long before you're even selected as a tribute. And an image gets your sponsors. The Careers are in the limelight from the second they're chosen. Since we have none of the money and so none of the publicity, it's harder for us to make an impression. And we must make an impression. Otherwise, you may as well be in the arena without a weapon. So creating the right image for you is vital.”

“And you know how to make an impression with these people, then?” Sherlock asked, his voice tinged with condescension.

Irene smiled. “I know what they like. You're going to be a harder sell, I can tell you that much.”

Sherlock seemed to prickle slightly at her words. “A harder sell?”

“You're not very likeable, Mr. Holmes. I know you both think I've spent my years since my Games in a drugged haze, but I listen, and I know what people think about you. They're about as fond of you as they are of your half-brother.” Mycroft rolled his eyes at her. “You're cold and superior, and that sort of attitude won't win you any sponsors. Take John for example. He's a healer who volunteered to save his sister. He's warm and friendly. The public will love him. You don't smile, you barely even speak, and most of your District thinks you've sold them out at one point or another. And I have to find a way to make you as likeable as John.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Only one person can win anyway, so what does it matter? You said so yourself that we're statistically unlikely.”

“Try and keep that attitude under wraps in the Capitol during the interviews. No one will like it.” Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. “It's my job to try and make them like you. If you want to be the first one dead in the arena, then that's your business.” She paused, looking him over, considering. “Maybe we can find a way to play up the intelligence angle. It's sexy, when you're not insulting someone. I'll see what I can come up with. Just try not to alienate anyone in the time being.”

“And me?”

Irene turned to John. “Just act like you normally would. Smile, wave, talk to people. Play the game.”

***                    *                    ***

John slept fitfully that night, despite being on the most comfortable bed he'd ever known inside the darkest, calmest bedroom ever built. Even the slight motion from the train couldn't lull him into a restful sleep. He just lay awake staring into the dark, thinking about how less than a day ago, he'd been sitting at home with Harry, eating their meager dinner and planning the next hunt.

He had repeated Irene's words in his head over and over. Play the game, play the game. Be a proper piece in it, and maybe you stand a chance. John wasn't optimistic.

He heard the faint sound of footsteps from somewhere farther down the train. Sherlock, no doubt, up pacing. The man seemed uncomfortable whenever he was forced to be still. John wondered if he was too nerve-wracked to sleep as well. Of course, that would have been a normal response, and there was nothing normal about Sherlock. John thought that might just help him in the arena, along with his detachment.

And the more John thought about it, the less likely he found it that, if faced with the opportunity, he would be able to kill him.

 


	2. Five Hundred Miles Away from Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "People had called him a sociopath when he was younger. And sociopaths were well known for superficial charm.  
> Maybe they'd been right."

As they neared the Capitol the next morning, Sherlock watched John stare out at the skyline. John was trying to not be enthusiastic, but Sherlock could see how impressed he was. Sherlock sat sulking in one of the easy chairs, wishing the train ride would last longer. He wasn't looking forward to the crowds that would be waiting for them at the station, the crowds that would instantly decide which tribute from District 12 they were going to root for. Sherlock knew Adler was right, but he couldn't just turn himself into someone else to suit the masses.

He wondered how much contact he would have to have with John between now and the start of the Games. John had tried to initiate conversations with him on the long ride into the Capitol, and Sherlock had been his usual difficult self, not doing a thing to keep the conversation going. He just didn't see the point in making friends with someone when they were both probably going to be dead in a matter of weeks anyway.

Sherlock had been thinking over the possible outcomes of the Games. The most likely one was that they would both die, and relatively soon. But he wondered what would happen if it came down to the two of them, or even if they happened across each other in the arena. Would John be able to kill him? Would John really be able to kill anyone? He was a healer after all. Of course, Sherlock knew what people were capable of when it came down to life or death. The bigger question on his mind was would he be able to kill the healer if it came to that? Sherlock, while forbidding, had never killed anyone, and wasn't keen on starting. But he supposed he would do what he had to do to survive, just like anyone else.

The train pulled to a stop at the station, and John stood at the window, watching the people outside cheer for them. Sherlock stood and walked up behind him, looking over his shoulder at all the Capitol residents in their ridiculous outfits, getting so excited about meeting the people they were going to have killed. It was too morbid even for him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock picked at the edges of the gown the prep team had left him in. After navigating the mobs of Capitol imbeciles, he and John had been ushered away to their respective teams for what they called a “full work up.” Blessedly, it didn't take much. Sherlock had always been fastidious, even under the constant cloud of dust that seemed to blanket District 12. But now he was getting bored and jittery. He'd been sitting alone in this room for what felt like hours, wishing this stylist would hurry up already. Sherlock had seen Mycroft earlier that day, and he had seemed excited about the stylist, saying he'd had some say in who it was and that he was quite pleased with her. This made Sherlock instantly suspicious. Mycroft had a very specific type of person he liked, and it almost always clashed with the type that appealed to Sherlock.

Finally the door opened and in walked a tall woman with dark wavy hair and very high heels that clicked on the floor. She had some electronic gadget in her hand, and seemed very attached to it. She was dressed similarly to how Mycroft usually looked, a bit toned down for the Capitol, but with very over-the-top jewelry. She looked up from her little gadget and shook her hair out of her face.

“My name is Anthea. I'm your stylist.”

“Anthea _what_?”

“ _Just_ Anthea.”

Anthea. These Capitol types always had such ridiculous names. Sherlock could see the Mycroft influence. They were probably old friends. The woman ran her eyes over him. “I've been talking with John's stylist, and we have a nice angle to work for you two for the Tribute's Parade. But outside of that, you will be delightfully easy to dress. I know _exactly_ what to do with you.” She gave him a pursed-lip smile and, electronics still in hand, said, “Let's get started.”

***                    *                    ***

John stared at the old woman who entered the room. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but she certainly wasn't it. She was small with light, wispy hair and a soft look in her eyes. She wore a skirt and a a fitted jacket with puffed shoulders, both colored a deep plum. She smiled kindly. Her Capitol accent wasn't quite as strong as most, and she had a homey sort of comforting quality about her. She walked up to him. “Hello, John, dear. I'm Martha Hudson. I'll be your stylist this year. How are you?” John couldn't recall anyone sincerely asking him how he was until then.

“Honestly? Not good.”

“It's trying, isn't it? Every year when they bring you all in, it makes my heart ache seeing how tired and scared some of you are.” John was surprised. He had never heard a Capitol resident talk that way before. “But we do what we can to make it a little easier.”

“You and the other stylist design what we wear in the Parade, right?”

“Yes, and anything else where you appear in public. I've been talking to Anthea, the other stylist, and your mentor. We know what direction we want to take. Miss Adler told us to make sure we made good use of your pleasant personality. She said to make you feel like home. We won't be making you flashy. Except for at the Parade. We will be making a strong impression there, if we do our jobs right.” She grinned a little.

“Coal miners?”

“No, dear. It wouldn't be fair to you two if we did that. Neither of you have the hearts of coal miners, do you?”

“I suppose not. So what are we planning on?”

“You'll see.”

 

* * *

 

John and Sherlock stood backstage with Irene, Mycroft, and the stylists. Irene gazed longingly at a passing tray of drinks. She had finally forced herself to get dressed in real clothes and was wearing an oddly textured black dress and heels so sharp that John thought they could be used as weapons in the arena. She had on the deepest shade of red lipstick he'd ever seen and had her hair piled high up on her head. She looked like she was going to be the one paraded in front of thousands.

John stared at Sherlock, who stood a few feet away, looking bored. His clothes were alarmingly simple and understated. He was dressed in dark colors from head to toe, the crown jewel of the outfit a dark gray coat that billowed around him when he moved. It drew attention away from the basic blazer and dress clothes underneath, overtaking his lithe figure completely. John himself was dressed in shades of gold and deep reds. He wished he was allowed colors as subdued as Sherlock's, not liking how much it made him stand out. But he was sure they had chosen their clothes for a reason.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock looked around at the other tributes and their teams as they prepared for the Parade. One pair caught his eye. The tributes from District 8, textiles. One was a large man with glasses, older than John it looked like, dressed in classic formal wear, an elegant blue brocade suit. The other tribute was a woman, and a small one at that. She had a scared look in her eyes like a little girl would. She was wearing a pink ball gown, one made of seemingly endless thin layers of shimmery sheer material. The end result made her look like a princess from a fairy tale. She had a lot of light brown hair that was left hanging straight down her back. Her stylists must have been working the sweet innocence look.

Sherlock locked eyes with the young woman for a minute, and turned away when she smiled at him. That was the last thing he needed.

He looked to the other side of the room where the Careers were hovering. The tributes from District 1 were as flashy as ever. Since their fare was luxury items, they always felt the need to show off much more than was necessary at the Parade, and this year they had certainly gone over the top. The woman was a redheaded creature with a sort of judging yet empty expression. Her male counterpart was a wiry looking man with black hair and a smile that belonged on a reptile. They were both decked out liked a king and queen. The man looked especially comfortable in his elegant robes, fingers covered in rings, and precious stones covering as much empty space as possible. He even had a crown, which he had tilted at an angle. Each of them had their own scepters. Sherlock hadn't thought it was possible for him to be any more disdainful of the Career districts, and yet here he was, finding himself thinking less of them by the minute.

The man caught him staring and flashed him a smile. It was one Sherlock had seen on tributes in the past. It was not a stable smile. Sherlock was beginning to feel a little uneasy under the man's stare, and he breathed a small sigh of relief when the woman reclaimed his attention.

“There's always that one District that thinks they're god's gift to the universe.” Sherlock looked down and saw John standing beside him. He smirked a bit before he could stop himself.

“Yes, and nearly one hundred percent of the time, they're wrong.”

Mrs. Hudson and Anthea walked up to the two of them, and the old woman said, “We've coordinated this. You two don't worry about a thing. Just don't be alarmed. No matter what happens, remember that you're safe and that everything you'll be seeing is just for show, okay?” John and Sherlock exchanged a confused glance with each other. “Trust me.” The woman gave them each a quick hug and led them to their chariot.

“I wonder what they're keeping from us,” John said.

“We're about to find out.” The first chariot pulled away, and the Parade began.

***                    *                    ***

John was nearly deafened by the cheers. The stadium was filled to the brim with Capitol citizens, all hollering and screaming as the tributes made their way through. John could see the tributes from District 8 a few chariots ahead of them. As they emerged into the stadium, they both waved to all the Capitol citizens, and the man wrapped his arm around the woman protectively like an older brother would. They would no doubt be fan favorites.

The two of them felt the lurch as their own chariot moved forward, and as they entered the stadium, they both heard a whooshing noise surround them. The stylists had set off the rest of their costumes. John stared as plumes of smoke and coal dust began to swirl around Sherlock, flying off the coat as the wind tore at it. And then he saw the fire crackling around him, emanating from him. It wasn't a deadly sort of fire, more like what one would find in a fireplace late in the night where the flames were reduced to coal and embers, just as the smoke and ash coming from Sherlock was not threatening. They looked like home. He looked over his shoulder and could see the black smoke and trail of fire start to twist and turn into a trail of pyrotechnics behind them.

Smoke and fire weren't always agents of destruction. They had been turned comforting instead.

John listened to the cheers erupt from the spectators, smiling and waving at them. The stylists had put together an amazing display. Even Sherlock seemed mildly impressed. John locked eyes with the man, who had been staring at the trail of glowing fire following John. And underneath the awe, John could see the smallest hint of fear. It felt so much more final now that they were here in front of the world. John watched as Sherlock corrected himself, faced forward, and wiped all trace of expression from his face.

John continued to wave to the crowds, and said through his teeth, “Smile, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“So that you look enthusiastic.”

“But I'm not.” John reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock half-turned, looking at John's hand in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“ _Smile._ I don't care if you don't want to. Just do it.” Sherlock raised a gloved hand to push John's hand away, but stopped when John spoke again. “ _Listen to_ me. We are going to put up a united front. We will make them like us. If either of us are going to make it out of this alive, that's what we have to do. I don't want a part of this any more than you do, but until the Games are over, we have to do whatever we can to make this work out to the best of our abilities. Now, at least _pretend_ to give a damn.” Sherlock stared hard at him, and finally nodded. John loosened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder and held his hand out, Sherlock taking it after a pause. John turned to the crowds and raised their hands, and another cheer went up from the spectators. Sherlock forced himself to smile and wave. People had called him a sociopath when he was younger. And sociopaths were well known for superficial charm.

Maybe they'd been right.

***                    *                    ***

The chariots came to a stop at the end of the stadium, and John finally lowered and released Sherlock's hand. Since John continued to smile, Sherlock did too. And as their fire and smoke disappeared, all the tributes and spectators craned their necks to see President Moran approach the microphone.

Moran was an imposing man, fairly new to the office. He was tall and tan with sandy hair that he had slicked back neatly across his head. He had a sculpted square jaw and cold eyes. Whenever he smiled, even Sherlock, with all his limited insight into the subtleties of human expression, could tell it was insincere.

“Welcome, tributes. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Sherlock looked around at the other chariots, ignoring the entirety of Moran's speech. He found Moran unsettling. Everyone did. But even more unsettling was the dark haired man from District 1. He was grinning manically, his tilted crown catching the light. He shot Sherlock a look and laughed to himself. Sherlock felt the lurch of the chariot beneath him and forced himself back to the present.

Backstage, the stylists were waiting with Irene and Mycroft. Mycroft looked mildly pleased.

“Well, I don't think that could have gone better for us, do you?”

“Better is relative in the Games, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered at him.

“I told you I knew what they liked.” Irene flashed them a pleased smirk. “Thank god for good stylists.” Hudson gave a dismissive wave of her hand. Anthea was too preoccupied with her gadget to notice. Irene looked between John and Sherlock. “Whose idea was the hand thing? Oh, don't tell me, it must have been you, John. Not really Sherlock's style, is it? It was a good move.”

John arched an eyebrow at Sherlock, a blatant _I told you so_.

 

* * *

 

John practiced with as many different weapons as possible. He had plenty of survival skills and knew how to hunt animals, but he felt it wasn't enough. There was no telling what he would have access to in the arena. He couldn't just hope he had a weapon that he was proficient with.

Throughout the day, Sherlock kept his distance. He hadn't spoken at all at dinner the night before, and had slammed his bedroom door without even a passing glance to anyone else. The parade had seemed to exhaust him more than any amount of physical activity would have. And all day, John had watched him go from station to station. He split his time evenly between all of them, not giving anyone any indication what his strengths or weaknesses were. John wasn't sure that it was a calculated move, or if Sherlock genuinely felt he needed practice in all areas. If so, John hoped he had a steep learning curve.

John kept to himself, working with the spears, when he heard voices nearby. He paused, spear still in hand, and slowly he made his way around the corner, and saw the man from District 1 towering over the girl from District 8. He had her backed up against the wall, and she was trying to hold her own, but every time she attempted to get away from him, he would push her back, just gently enough to not draw attention.

“How about you go back to your own training, then?”

The man looked up, his hand still braced against the wall. He smiled at John the way a hungry dog looks at meat.

“How do you know I'm not training? Or maybe giving someone from a less fortunate district sound advice to help them?”

“Because I'm not an idiot.”

“I highly doubt that's true.” The man let his hand fall, and he took a few steps closer to John, forgetting the girl entirely.

“Back off.”

The man ignored the warning. John held the spear out, setting the tip against the man's chest. “You're not nearly practiced enough to do anything with that.” He locked eyes with John. “If this were the arena, you'd be dead.”

“Good thing it isn't the arena, then.”

The man only laughed, pushing the spear's tips away with his finger. John let him.

“Stay on your toes, Twelve,” he said, finally turning his back and walking away.

When John looked to the wall, the woman was gone.

***                    *                    ***

Irene was late to dinner that evening, finally strolling in as she had on the train, with a sort of hazy look in her eyes. John had gone to ask her a question earlier, and walked in on her tying a tourniquet around her arm while holding a syringe between her teeth. She'd looked at him, waiting for him to speak, but he had just turned and walked away. Despite this, she seemed mostly coherent, and as she sat down at the table across from Mycroft, she cast a glance to Sherlock, who had been staring at his plate in silence, and said, “My my, aren't we surly this evening.”

He only looked up to glare at her.

“Of course, we're surly every evening, I'm sure.”

“That's quite enough, Miss Adler,” Mycroft said, giving her a disapproving tilt of his head.

“Don't we all look like a happy family.” She looked between them, smiling, completely ignoring Mycroft. “And how did your day go, dear?” She turned to John, mimicking an interested parent.

“Oh for god's sake,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“In all seriousness,” she continued, her smile still on her lips, “I hope you made good use of the day.”

John nodded, feeling a bit too tired to talk. Sherlock just frowned at his water glass.

“The talk I've been hearing is that John's a bit of an underdog favorite.” She gave him a nod of approval. “Of course, Jim Moriarty has a large fan base already.”

“Who?” John asked.

“The man from District 1.”

Sherlock looked up, his interest mildly piqued.

“Anyone who actually talked to him wouldn't consider him a favorite,” John said.

“Good publicity can wipe out all sorts of unpleasant details of personality,” Mycroft said. “Though I'm not sure there's ever enough in some cases.”

“Your faith in me is astounding, Mycroft.” Sherlock sat back in his seat.

“There's no need to snap, Sherlock.”

“Just say it.”

“Say what.”

“What you've been thinking since we arrived.”

Irene and John both looked at Mycroft expectantly.

Mycroft sighed, twirling a gaudy ring around his finger. “I simply think – and this is in no way a determination of who will win the Games – I just believe that of the two of you, John currently has the upper hand.”

“And why is that?” John asked.

“Because the citizens adore you, and will only adore you more once the interviews commence. You're both a healer, a martyr, and a trained killer.”

“Of animals. And I'm not trained.”

“You have more expertise with killing than many tributes do. Sherlock has never been in a survival situation in his life, let alone one that requires killing others. And if he were to get wounded, he wouldn't be able to heal himself. You would.” He turned to Sherlock. “It's fact, Sherlock. There's no room for sentimentality here.”

“Your arrogance won't do you any favors, Mr. Holmes,” Irene said to Sherlock. “It will make you unlikeable, and it will cloud your judgment.”

In a very calm voice that belied how upset he was, he answered, “If statistics are to be believed, then my judgment is irrelevant. There's a reason you're the only victor our district has to offer, Miss Adler. The odds have never been in our favor, and I don't believe there's any hope of that changing any time soon.”

“Don't you want to fight?”

“I believe the term for this sort of fight is 'a losing battle.' Goodnight.” He pushed his chair back and calmly walked out of the room.

The three of them shared glances, Mycroft giving a beleaguered raise of his eyebrows.

“What was all that about, then?”

Irene turned to John. “Oh, he's just being moody. From what I understand, he's like that even on the best of days.”

“Is it true? About my chances being better than his?”

She paused, draining her drink. “Best not to think of the odds, John. He was right about that. The odds have never been in our favor.”

***                    *                    ***

“Mycroft seemed really bothered by your talk last night,” John said. Sherlock stood across the table from him in the training room as they worked with camouflage techniques.

“How tragic.”

“You know, there's no sense in making things more bleak than they already are.”

Sherlock shot him a look. “Do you believe there's any sense in holding on to false hope?”

“Maybe it isn't all false. We don't know what sort of arena we'll have, or what sort of sponsors. We may still have a chance.”

“Wrong. One of us may still have a chance. There is no _we_ in the Games, and you know that as well as I do.”

“Well until it comes to that, we might as well be a team. We can survive a whole lot easier working together.”

“Until one of us is forced to kill the other.”

John fell silent, his eyes dropping to the table. “You don't believe we'll be the last two alive anyway, so what does it matter? According to you, it will never actually come to that.”

“So what is the point in working together when we're both going to die?”

“Christ, Sherlock, haven't you ever fought for anything? Don't you see any value in at least trying?” He hated the sharpness in his voice, and hated even more that Sherlock had struck a nerve so frayed and raw that he had been reduced to it.

“No. I don't.”

“Then you might as well step off the platform before the countdown's finished, or throw yourself off a cliff or something and end it, since you obviously don't care whether you live or die.”

“Don't be mistaken, John. If attacked in the arena, I will gladly kill whoever strikes the blow. But I am confident that at some point, I'll be too late. I will get killed just like twenty-three others. And does it really matter at all?”

“Yes. It matters when people die, whoever they are.”

Before he walked away, he said only, “Wrong.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Five Hundred Miles Away from Home](http://thenightisland.tumblr.com/post/70640753440/marielikestodraw-brotherstories-five)


	3. Every Way You Look at It, You Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sherlock had only been a child when it happened, his mother skirting around the word “hanged” like it was poison on her lips."

At fifteen years old, during a bitter winter, Sherlock had gone wandering off, as he always did when he was bored at home. It was late in the day, and it had snowed the day before. As a result, most of the residents of the district were indoors that afternoon, leaving him free from their chatter and noise. His home, or rather, the home Mycroft had set up for him, was never quiet, always brightly lit and dominated by the feeling that he was constantly being watched.

Sherlock came to an old house, one long since abandoned. It had belonged to a tribute's family, and when their child had not returned, neither parent had been able to cope. The memories in the house had only made them hurt worse. Sherlock had only been a child when it happened, his mother skirting around the word “hanged” like it was poison on her lips. All the children regarded the house with a sort of morbid fascination, which grew into a reverent respect as they aged. The house had never been filled with another family. Instead, it was allowed to fall to ruin. Sherlock had come to it before, even though everyone else steered clear of it. Even the neighbors would have nothing to do with it, letting the wood rot and the grass grow too tall.

He pushed the door aside. It didn't stay on its hinges anymore. Instead it just had to be propped in the door frame. He left it open, letting in faint slants of late afternoon light.

The house's furniture had been left as well, and it sat in place, in ruin, all the fabrics torn and molded, all the wood threatening to snap at any second. Sherlock craned his neck, looking up through the hole in the roof. It left a spotlight in front of the fireplace. It wouldn't be long before there was nothing left of the house at all.

The half of the house not occupied by the living room had a small second floor above it. Sherlock climbed the creaking steps to the one upstairs room. The roof was still intact here, the only light coming from the broken window.

He slowly walked across the room, hands in his pockets. The wood groaned under his feet as it did every time he came up here. But this time, he was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice that spots in the wood had gone soft, and as he put his weight on one such place, the floor gave way. It caved in, sending him crashing to the first floor below, landing badly. And in a second, the roof followed, crushing him, and burying him. He could feel his legs pinned and knew he was bleeding from multiple places. He cursed himself for being so stupid, so easily distracted, and he felt a creeping fear rise up inside him before his head began to spin and everything went black.

***                    *                    ***

When he opened his eyes, his head was pounding, and he didn't know where he was.

“You're very lucky,” a voice said. “The neighbors saw you go in, so they went looking for you when they heard the house collapse.”

Sherlock said nothing. His brain felt too foggy to form anything eloquent. He imagined it was how normal people felt every day.

There was a boy sitting across the room from him. He was maybe a few years older than Sherlock, but he had the tired expression of someone who has already seen a lifetime's worth of sad things.

Sherlock looked around the room. It was someone's home, but this room had been set up as a makeshift clinic. There were little hints of what passed for medicine all over: syringes, cloths, various plants, and occasional vials or bottles of highly coveted medication. Sherlock was laid out on a hard wooden table, no doubt one that was originally intended for dining.

“We're keeping you here for the night. My father's already examined you, and we've treated your wounds. I'm just going to be over here for the night to keep an eyes on things.” Sherlock nodded. “Can you sit up?” The boy came to stand by Sherlock's table, his hands braced should Sherlock black out again. But he was able to sit without a problem. “Can you talk?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Soft spot on the floor, where it had rotted out.”

“Be more careful next time. No more abandoned houses.” The boy set about checking his eyes, reflexes, looking him over and asking if he could move all his extremities. Sherlock winced more than once. “In pain, I imagine. I'm afraid there's not much we can do for that right now. You'll just have to get some rest.”

Sherlock eyed the bottles and vials, his gaze lingering far too long on the syringe. He saw the boy out of the corner of his eye, following his line of sight before turning back to Sherlock, his expression tinged with disapproval.

“Those are far too heavy for you.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“We give those to people who are dying. If I had something safe to give you for the pain, I would. But I don't.”

Sherlock still stared at the syringe. It looked inviting. The boy snapped in front of his eyes.

“Hey. Leave it alone, yeah?” Sherlock hesitated, but finally nodded. “That's the last thing you need.”

The boy tended to him all night. By morning, he was visibly weary, but he never once dozed off or had someone relieve him. Sherlock got the impression that this was common enough fare for the boy, and when his father came downstairs the next morning, looking nearly as exhausted as his son, he reexamined Sherlock and declared him safe to send home. The father seemed in a hurry to be getting rid of him, and whenever he spoke, there was a tension in his face that the boy seemed to understand. Sherlock wasn't sure what it meant, but he was still slower than usual, certainly not up to par, and so he tried to not wonder about it.

Sherlock's mother came for him, and after many thanks, she led him out of the house. As the door fell shut behind them, he heard the boy say, “Can I go to sleep for a while?”

“I wish you could, John. But we have to leave, and now. There's been an explosion in the mines. We'll need to bring the gun with us.”

When he was resting at home later that day, Sherlock heard more about the accident at the mines from his mother's friends as they came to talk about it and inquire after Sherlock's well being. And as hard as he tried, he couldn't imagine the blond boy covered in blood from the coal dust tinged bodies of miners.

* * *

 

“So what skill did you decide to show them?” John asked. They sat out in the hall, waiting to be called in for their evaluations, the metal of the bench cold beneath them. Irene had given them plenty of advice, explaining how it would go, and despite John being confident in his abilities, he still felt like nothing would be enough to really help any.

Sherlock sat beside him, arms crossed over his chest and a sulky expression on his face, one that John had become more than accustomed too since they left District 12.

“Sherlock?”

“I heard you.” He continued to stare straight ahead, but never did speak again. John didn't much appreciate being ignored so blatantly, but he wasn't going to keep making an effort if Sherlock was going to be like that. John looked away from him, feeling himself settling into a bad mood as they called Sherlock's name. He left without even glancing at John, completely caught up in his own head.

The black mood intensified, and as he waited, it shifted from irritation at Sherlock to a full blown dislike of everyone and everything. They shouldn't have to be doing this. No one should have to perform so that someone could assign them betting odds for the masses to use, statistics on how likely they were to die. No one should have to have interviews and pageants and pretend that everything was okay.

By the time the voice called his name, John had reached a point where all he wanted to do was walk in and tell them all to fuck off and leave it at that. But Mycroft, and probably even Irene, would never let him hear the end of it, and logically he knew he couldn't do something that asinine anyway.

He took a deep breath to calm himself down, and opened the door.

He scanned his eyes over the room, looking at his weapon options. He had debated what to show them, and thought it best to play it safe, maybe show them some hunting, hitting moving targets with a bow or thrown knives. He had access to any weapon he could want. Part of him looked at the different racks of items trying to deduce what Sherlock had shown them, but there was no way to tell.

The judges stood above him on a platform, talking amongst themselves. One of them saw him and paused for a few seconds to say he had ten minutes before turning back to his partner in conversation. He might as well have not been in the room. They wouldn't quit talking.

He felt anger begin to bubble back to the surface. “Excuse me?” They continued to carry on as if he wasn't there.

And how much attention had they paid Sherlock? He was insufferable, yes, but he could command a room by presence alone. Surely they hadn't blatantly ignored _him_. John didn't care that he was an underdog favorite. Being well liked was worthless if he couldn't get anyone's attention.

He spoke again, louder this time. “I said _excuse me_.” Unbelievable. They were willing to send him to die the least they could do was pay attention. His patience wore thinner.

John glanced at the table nearest him and saw the selection of guns. They weren't as extensive as the other weapons, but they were enough. He picked up a small handgun and looked at the judges on the platform, eying the lights above their heads, the glass tubes casting their makeup-coated skin in a sickly glow. He raised the gun and shot.

Glass rained down on them as the lights shattered. Some of them yelped or screamed. They were thrown into half darkness, in partial silhouette from the one intact light in the very back. They stood in the shadows, finally quiet. Some of them stared at him, mouths hanging open. He was sure they thought he was terribly rude, no doubt an insult to their Capitol manners. But he gave no apologies, and he laid the gun back on the table, and left the room without another word.

***                    *                    ***

John kept to himself until the reveal of their scores. He knew he'd be in trouble with Mycroft, and possibly Irene as well, and he was nearly sure that even Sherlock would at least give him strange looks. He didn't want to talk to anyone, and so he hid as best as he could. He put off returning to their floor for as long as possible.

And as soon as he walked inside, Mycroft opened his mouth, but he was cut off by Irene bursting into a laughing fit from her place on the couch.

“Well, you made an impression, I'll give you that!” Mycroft gave her a disapproving look, turning to John.

“I heard about your little performance in there. _What_ were you thinking?”

“Shut up, Iceman, they're reading the scores!” Irene said through her laughter. She fell silent, sitting on the edge of the couch in a bathrobe, her face bright with excitement. Mycroft conceded, standing behind her, with a broody expression that John was convinced ran in the family.

He finally saw Sherlock sitting in a chair across the room, watching John with quiet but marked fascination. He only looked away when the announcer began reading the scores.

John stood in his place, watching as Jim Moriarty and Kitty Riley from District 1 were both awarded tens. Sherlock frowned at the screen as Moriarty's score was read, and then he slipped into thought while they went through the other districts.

Most of the scores were average enough, a few abysmally low, a few high enough that they made John concerned. The woman from District 8 scored an eight. He hoped that would be enough to keep her alive for a while at least.

Sherlock scored a nine, and seemed satisfied enough. He ignored a smile and words of congratulations from both Irene and Mycroft. He seemed more interested in John's score than his own.

Eleven.

Irene clapped and gave a cheer of delight, but Mycroft remained stoney.

“Don't applaud, Miss Adler.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was stupid. You must make calculated moves, careful moves. You cannot display such impulsive behavior in the arena. It will get you killed. And on top of that, it was terribly rude.”

Sherlock finally spoke. “What did you do?” He stared John down, curious.

John opened his mouth to speak, and Mycroft cut him off, turning to Sherlock. “John decided to open fire on the judges.”

“Only on their light fixtures,” Irene said, chuckling.

“He picked up a gun and shot the lights out.”

Sherlock looked from Mycroft back to John, and after a pause asked, “Why did you do that?”

“They weren't paying attention.”

Mycroft stared at the ceiling as if he'd been cursed with the world's greatest burden.

Sherlock locked eyes with John, and finally, he smiled, not a performed smile like he had given to the Capitol. A real one. It was the first hint of amusement he'd ever shown. He said nothing, but was still smiling when he looked away.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock actually spoke at dinner that night, but only to John. He ignored Mycroft entirely, and only communicated with Irene through a series of nods and occasional glares. Even to John, he only said a few words, but it was certainly a dramatic improvement.

That night, John made an offhanded remark to Sherlock about how he had been nearly sociable all evening.

He gave John another of those small, entertained smiles, and said, “What you did, that was good.”

“Mycroft doesn't seem to think so.”

“Precisely.”

John laughed. “Well, hopefully it won't come back to haunt me.”

“Either way. It was...” He stopped, trying to find a word that suited him in his no doubt massive vocabulary. He smirked, and before he turned to walk off, he said, “Impressive.”

* * *

 

Greg Lestrade's face dominated the screen as John watched backstage. He smiled broadly, waving at the audience, the lights reflecting off the metallic silver in his hair. He spoke excitedly to the people, his enthusiasm making them cheer louder and louder. He had always been a favorite host, though Sherlock had muttered something about him being “rather like a dull slapstick policeman.” His opinion was the minority one, of course. Lestrade was a bright spot in this mess. The way he played it, you could almost believe that the tributes really were just having a cozy little chat with him, instead of being displayed like cattle.

Both John and Sherlock closely watched the tributes from District 1, Jim and Kitty. They'd both been dressed like royalty again. A crown seemed to be Jim's token accessory. Whenever he spoke, the crowds fell in love with him a little bit more. And while he was superficially charming much in the way that Sherlock could be, he made John uneasy. There was something in the way he moved that wasn't quite right, and sometimes his sarcasm didn't sound quite so sarcastic. Kitty wasn't all that better, but her true self was more poorly concealed, and it was clear that that was what she intended. There was a sort of ruthlessness in her eyes that made John think she'd willingly chase down any one of them, and lose no sleep over doing so.

The girl from District 8, Molly, was dressed like a girl next door, with her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She was able to smile sweetly at the camera, and any time she stumbled awkwardly over her words, Lestrade made sure no one noticed. He looked at her with a sort of affection, and John wondered if, under different circumstances, they would have been good friends.

Some of the tributes were children, and the very sight of them up there on stage made John feel sick. They couldn't have been older than ten, and they were going to be competing against adults who didn't care that they had only just entered the world. There was no way they would make it; those children were going to die.

He still felt dizzy when they called his name.

***                    *                    ***

He hated being on stage as soon as he set foot on it. He couldn't see for all the lights, and the noise was deafening. But he put on a smile and shook Lestrade's hand, relaxing a little at his whispered words of, “It'll only be a minute, John. I'll make it easy as I can.” And then he clapped him on the shoulder as he turned back out to the crowd. He sat down in the chair next to John's and waited for the applause to die down.

The whole interview felt hazy. Half of his brain was still thinking about the dead children. He could hardly focus on the simple questions Lestrade asked him. There was, of course, mention of how he volunteered for Harry, and John gave some reply about how he loved her, how they were family, how he could never let his family go when he could go in their place. He didn't think it would go over well if he said, “She's an alcoholic and would have lasted two seconds at best, assuming she didn't kill herself before training was even over.”

So he did what Irene had told him to do. He played the game.

***                    *                    ***

John finally started coming down once he was backstage where it was safe and he didn't have to smile for cameras or cheerily answer questions. The audience had loved him, or so said Mycroft and Irene, but he barely heard them. It was all becoming too real.

He leaned against a wall, focusing on his breathing, watching Sherlock walk out on stage. Although “walk” wasn't quite the right word. Sherlock didn't really _walk_ anywhere. It was more of a stride. John watched his performance. He could easily tell how fake it was, but if the shouts were any indication, the audience couldn't. But Sherlock was clearly wearing his public face, and it was so different from the one John had grown used to.

Anthea had dressed him sleekly in all black, and if you couldn't see his eyes – the only splash of color he had – he looked sort of strange surrounded by all the Capitol flash and glitz. He was a single frame of black and white film spliced into a color reel.

Lestrade asked him some basic questions, bantered with him a little. Sherlock had a good voice for these sorts of things. When the camera would cut to audience members reacting, he could see how effective this persona was. The audience had never put up with a single hour of his moodiness or intellectual superiority. To them he was just an elegant man with a nice voice.

“Anyone you want to say hello to while you're up here, Sherlock? Girlfriend or boyfriend?” Lestrade gave him a teasing grin.

Sherlock gave a fake good-natured laugh. “No.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.”

“Not really my area.”

“Any friends then?”

“The closest I've ever had to a friend, is, regrettably, here with me.”

John's mouth fell open in disbelief. Seriously? The majority of their time here, Sherlock had been standoffish and acerbic. And while he had warmed up a little, he certainly wasn't expecting the word “friend” to ever come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

“You mean John?”

“Yes.”

“You two knew each other before coming here, then?”

“In a way.”

“Tell us.”

“Well, John has always been an excellent healer in our district, and he learned from his father, of course. And although he probably does not remember it, he and his father saved my life once, when we were younger.”

“Really?”

“Yes. That's always been John's business, really. Saving lives. And it's quite a shame that he won't be able to save lives now.” The voices rose in sympathetic murmurs, the camera cutting to show everyone looking woefully at Sherlock, some of them with their hands over their hearts.

John couldn't believe the line. It was risky, reminding everyone there about what they would all be doing in a few days. But it also made John look good to the people, more so than it did Sherlock. Which begged the question of why someone so self-serving would say anything that might benefit someone who was technically his opponent.

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully at Sherlock's remark. “Did you two talk a lot after that?”

“Amazingly, no. Although I wish we had. He's a far better man than I am.” Sherlock gave the closest thing he could to a humble smile.

As soon as Sherlock stepped out of sight of the cameras, the smile evaporated and it was replaced with a look of pure distaste. He came and stood by John, glancing up at the screen before rolling his eyes.

“What was all that, then?”

Sherlock looked down at him. “What do you mean?”

“All that mess about us being friends and me being some sort of noble healer.” Sherlock only shrugged. “Playing the game, are we?”

He paused before he spoke, saying quietly, “Of course.”

Irene came up to them in her clicking heels and said, “Wonderful line, Mr. Holmes. Did John feed you that one?” Sherlock shook his head, and Irene turned to John for confirmation. “Are you serious? Did Sherlock Holmes successfully navigate a public social interaction without you giving him his lines? Well, maybe you aren't a lost cause yet,” she said to Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a small nod, pretending to be fascinated by Lestrade talking on stage.

John was still having trouble wrapping his head around the _why_ , when a horrible thought hit him as he watched Sherlock slip into that mode of deep thought he often assumed.

What if Sherlock was beginning to make John look good because he was already convinced he was a lost cause himself, and that someone in their district should have a chance? Was Sherlock already that convinced that he was going to die?

* * *

 

The night before the Games, John couldn't sleep. He hated his body refusing to let him rest when that was what he needed most. It was safe to fall asleep in this bedroom. It wouldn't be safe to sleep in the arena. But logic can't always overcome instinct, and the fear that coursed through him drowned out any rationality that he had left.

He left his room, pacing around their floor, rubbing his hands over his eyes. When he walked into the living room, he stopped, staring at the figure in the window. Sherlock was sitting in the window seat, his back leaning against the wall and his arms resting on his knees. He was silhouetted by the lights of the Capitol, which he stared at with a blank indifference.

“Can't sleep either?”

Sherlock didn't startle at his voice. In all likelihood, he'd known John was there since the second he walked in the room. He answered without looking at him. “I have never been one for long nights of sleep. They are a waste of valuable time.”

John went and sat in front of him on the other end of the window seat. There was no way it was the city lights that were really holding his attention. He might as well have been blind to them.

“Are you worried about tomorrow?”

“Really, John, there's no sense in worrying. There's no way to change it.”

John stared hard at him, prickled by his nonchalance until his eyes fell to Sherlock's hands. There was a barely noticeable shaking to them.

“Don't lie to me.”

Sherlock jerked his head around, glaring. But he saw John looking at his shaking hands, and scoffed. “Body's betraying me.”

“I would say that it's perfectly logical to be afraid in a situation like ours.”

“ _Afraid_?” He said the word with distaste, shaking his head. “I'm fine. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“I didn't say there was. But look, you wouldn't be sitting up here alone in the middle of the night if you weren't afraid.”

“Then what does that say about you?”

“I have no problem admitting it, Sherlock. I'm terrified. And with reason. So don't tell me you're fine. None of us are fine.” Sherlock said nothing in reply. “Can I ask you something? What was that, during the interviews?”

“What do you mean?”

“All that stuff you said to Lestrade.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “You all told me to act, so I did.”

John sat in silence for a while, staring at his hands. “You're wrong, you know.”

“About what?”

“I do remember. Sitting up with you that night after you nearly got yourself killed.”

When John looked back up, Sherlock was watching him carefully. “You helped save my life. Then you understand that at the interviews, I was attempting to, in some small part, repay the favor. Every audience is full of potential sponsors looking for their favorite tribute. Of course, the unfortunate reality of it is that we still aren't likely to survive this.”

“Maybe not even the first day.”

“Maybe not.”

John sighed. “Well, if you die, it won't be at my hands, Sherlock.” Sherlock only nodded, a silent “likewise,” or so John hoped. “I don't want to kill anyone. And those tributes that are children? I could never even pretend that I would be able to kill them.”

“Even if they were trying to kill you?”

“They're maybe ten years old, Sherlock. They're just kids.”

“Remember that all of the tributes are usually _just kids_. We are anomalies because of the Quarter Quell. In a regular year, the arena would be nothing but children. I've watched children kill other children before. I have no reason to believe that they wouldn't at least try to kill us as well.”

“I hope it doesn't come to that. I would never be able to live with myself.”

“Then pray that they die quick deaths.”

“I don't want them to die at all.”

“But they will, John. You know that as well as I do.”

John had never felt so defeated.

“I'm supposed to put people back together. I'm not supposed to hurt them. I'm a healer, not a murderer.”

“Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances.”

“Yeah, but I can't just actively hunt people down. It goes against everything I've ever believed.”

“Your beliefs don't matter anymore. You are no longer John Watson. You are a tribute.”

“I never asked for this. None of us did. I just want to go home and pretend this never happened. I want to go home, take care of my sister, and quietly live my life. The district is miserable some days, but it's better than this. And you're right, we'll both probably end up dead. And I'm glad Mary will look after Harry when the time comes, but she shouldn't have to. It shouldn't be like this.”

John thought Sherlock would let the silence stretch on again, an impartial observer to John's worries. But he said in a very matter of fact voice, “I did not leave behind anyone who relied on me. I won't be missed.” He didn't speak as if this bothered him at all, as if he were simply stating a fact.

John almost let the words slip out: “I would miss you.” But he stopped himself, knowing that Sherlock would accuse him of pointless sentimentality.

And besides, to miss someone, you had to be alive to miss them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Every Way You Look at It, You Lose](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9C1BCAgu2I8)


	4. A Certain Slant of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He saw her face a thousand times that night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to preface this with a warning.  
> At the end of this chapter is a potentially very upsetting mercy killing (aka there's a reason why the gun has been mentioned as a tool to end suffering multiple times thus far).  
> So be forewarned. It's extremely unpleasant.  
> I'm sorry in advance.

 

Irene explained the cornucopia to them, telling them that if they went anywhere near it that it would increase their likelihood of dying by quite a bit, but a single shared look between the two of them made it clear that they had no intentions of heeding her warnings. Neither of them would run away from the only resources they had. Still, Irene stressed the importance of getting the hell out as fast as possible, which was something all three of them could agree on.

John sat in his seat on the Capitol hovercraft, looking at the other tributes. In such a set up, they looked like soldiers, waiting to be deployed. Across from him sat Molly, her hands visibly shaking. She winced when her tracker was inserted into her arm. Someone as sweet and sensitive as she appeared to be would last mere minutes in the arena.

They were all taken to individual rooms, where their stylists would see them off. John didn't like not being able to see Sherlock. He'd grown used to him since the Reaping, and there was something terribly final about this separation, as if it was supposed to remind them that they were from the same district, but they were not members of the same team.

Mrs. Hudson hugged him tight. She offered no platitudes, no promises that it would all be okay. For all her kindness, she had a realistic streak in her, and both of them knew there was no sense in sugar coating the situation. But she did tell him to be careful, and to fight hard, and despite the tears in her eyes, she stood tall when she spoke to him. John couldn't understand how a woman like her had ever been part of the Capitol. Maybe she thought that being a stylist would do the least damage, may even help someone. That was the only explanation John could come up with that would account for her heart.

But there was no time for sentimental farewells. John had one passing thought that at least Sherlock would be able to cope easily with these final goodbyes, since he deplored sentiment so much.

John had expected panic, fear, some sort of adrenaline rush, but as the platform lifted him into the arena, he felt a sort of horrible calm wash over him. It made him wonder about himself, albeit briefly. What could you say about someone who was calmer when faced with death than when faced with an ordinary life?

The arena came into crystal perfect view in an instant. Sharp mountains, and cold air, wrapped in winter. The trees were all bare save for the patches of evergreens in the forest. The tributes stood around the cornucopia in a clearing, surrounded on all sides by dense woods.

John could see his breath, a cloud forming in front of his face as his breathing quickened, his muscles tensing in anticipation. He looked at the other tributes, all of them eying each other with distrust and in some cases, murderous rage. He tried to find Sherlock, and finally saw him, his face blank, staring at no one and nothing.

The voice boomed across the arena, the countdown beginning. Every second seemed longer than the one before it.

John's eyes flitted between tributes, before he stopped, his mouth forming a silent “no.” And then the explosion came, one of the platforms disappearing in smoke and fire. A few other tributes' balance faltered, their eyes looking around frantically trying to process what had just happened. But John had seen it. He had seen the woman step off her platform. It was no accident. She had stared forward and taken one deliberate step. John's stomach sank. The woman had made her choice.

He almost missed the end of the countdown, as did many of them, distracted by the woman's death. But then it became a blur of running figures, of screams and battle cries. He saw Sherlock grab something and bolt for the woods, another tribute narrowly missing him with an arrow. John whirled around, his eyes finding the harsh metallic glint of a gun. He ran for it even as another tribute came from the other direction, trying to beat him to it. But the tribute stopped suddenly, only feet from John, eyes wide in shock, and then she fell to her knees, a spear sticking out of her back. The boy who had thrown it, maybe seventeen if that, came forward, wrenching it out of her. John reached forward, grabbing the gun and a knife beside it, and without a second thought for the dead woman, he ran.

The empty branches of trees cut at his face as he rushed through the woods, his heart pounding in his ears, only barely overshadowed by the distant booming of cannons, tally marks of the dead.

***                    *                    ***

When he was far enough away from the cornucopia to feel relatively safe, John slowed to a walk, taking deep breaths of the cold air that burned his lungs. He was fairly sure he was alone in his section of woods. There were no signs of anyone else. He realized how loud he sounded in the forest, and forced himself to breathe quietly. Every sound seemed to echo, seemed ten times louder than it probably was. Every snapping twig was just a potential harbinger of another tribute.

Night came quickly in the winter light, slanting sharply through the trees and casting shadows that tricked John's eyes more than once. He had walked all afternoon, feeling like if he stopped he would be found, but he knew walking through the night was not an option. When he found the fallen trees, he took it as a sign. It was a better shelter than he could probably make, and though it offered little space, it offered plenty of camouflage. John could see out well enough, but only very specific angles would allow anyone passing to see in. And while that wasn't ideal, it was better than nothing in an arena that offered very little cover.

He sat cross-legged, rubbing his eyes, wondering if his pulse would ever slow down, and thinking that the next time it did would be when it stopped entirely. He looked at his weapons sitting on the dirt in front of him, and he picked up one in each hand. John knew he was already luckier than half the people in the arena, having a weapon he could work with. But it was a hollow comfort.

The last daylight finally vanished entirely. John could see a few points of light far above him, a moon and stars placed there by the Capitol. It grew colder, but not unbearably so. They had had bad winters in the district before, and he had survived those. It was better to be cold than to give yourself away with fire. And for once, John was grateful that he was used to the sensation of hunger. It would make suffering the barren arena a little easier.

With a fanfare, the sky came alive. John craned his neck for a better view as the dead tributes' faces were given their few seconds of recognition. One of the child tributes was among the fallen. John was amazed any of the children were left. Maybe they had hid like he had. He saw the face of the woman who had committed suicide, one of the tributes from District 5. But both Molly and the man from her district, Mike, were both still alive. And John breathed a true sigh of relief when Sherlock's face was not shown. He had survived the first day.

John knew sleep was unlikely. How could he rest wondering if someone would find him? He tried to form some sort of plan of survival, but his brain felt foggy from the rush of adrenaline that had finally overtaken him in the cornucopia. If the reality of his situation was affecting him this much, then what effect was it having on someone who relied so heavily on logic as Sherlock?

As the night dragged on, his thoughts landed on Sherlock more than once, no matter how many times he told himself to quit worrying about someone who was no longer his friend, but his competition.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock did not stop when night fell.

He had no intentions of sleeping, not while there were still so many people in the arena. It would be suicide to let his guard down. The cannons had gone off even after the cornucopia battle was over, evidence of what happened to those who lulled themselves into a false sense of security.

So he walked slowly through the woods, as quietly as he could manage. He stuck to sections of woods heavy with evergreens, fewer leaves to crunch beneath his feet and more cover should another tribute appear.

He crossed into a clearing, and nearly stumbled over the corpse of a dead tribute, wondering why the body hadn't been removed. And then he raised his eyes and saw two more, Careers. And sitting on a log on the opposite side of the clearing was an old man. Around him was a vast array of weapons, presumably taken from the dead tributes. He sat with his hands on either side of him, just watching Sherlock, making no move to attack or hurt him.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock took a few steps closer, still keeping a safe distance, his eyes falling to the two dead Careers at the man's feet.

“How did you do it?” He looked up, meeting the man's eyes, but he remained silent. “You're an old man. How did you kill them?”

“I didn't. They killed themselves. Those kids from the good districts, they think they're so much better than everyone else. Think they're smarter, stronger, better trained. They may be a couple of those things, but they aren't smarter. _You_ think you're smarter than everyone else, too, Mr. Holmes. The others couldn't turn down my offer, once I made it. Can you?”

“I'm sure I could manage to walk away from here. I have no interest in suicide. And your games won't keep you alive out here. You're as good as dead anyway.” Sherlock turned to walk away, but the man stopped him.

“I wouldn't step that way, Mr. Holmes. I know I'm good as dead. That's why I thought I ought to have my fun while I still can. Turn around.” Sherlock did as he said. The man's hand had moved. It held a knife. In the ground, Sherlock saw a faint glimmer, wire tied around part of the fallen tree. He followed it, a silver gleam that split into different directions like lines on a map. And in the trees, he saw the shine of moonlight reflecting off the partially concealed blades, hung like guillotines. “You didn't think I'd only have the weapons around me, did you? Now come sit, and hear my offer. You have a far better chance with that than you do with my blades, or my gun, or my spear.”

Sherlock stood a few feet away, but refused to sit.

The man reached inside his pockets, pulling from each a handful of berries. “Take your pick, Mr. Holmes.”

“What is this?”

“One hand is safe, one hand is not.”

“And you know which one.”

“Of course. Whichever ones you pick, I eat the others.”

“Why risk me choosing the right ones, and you having to kill yourself? Why leave your life up to chance?”

“Look around. It's not chance. It's the game, Mr. Holmes. All part of the game.” He glanced at the dead woman near his feet. “They lost. So tell me, are you more clever than they are?”

“It wouldn't be difficult.”

“This isn't the first time I've done this. When I wasn't in the arena, I would just let them walk away if they wanted no part in it. But I can't do that here. There's no walking away from the Games, Mr. Holmes. Now, you can pick at random, you can make it chance. Or you can _think_ , and win the game.” He held out one hand. “Here. Am I giving you the good hand, or the bad one? You tell me. Everyone says you're a proper genius. Prove it.”

“You risked your own life to kill three people. Why? Seems contradictory to surviving the Games.”

“No one survives the Games. You know that as well as I do. Like you said, I'm good as dead. I know it.”

Sherlock stared at his outstretched hand, grabbing it with his own, holding it up in the weak light. As he reached for his other hand, doing the same, he said, “The weapons you have, there's too many to just be from the tributes you've killed, and I highly doubt you risked running into the cornucopia, so where did they come from?”

“I have a sponsor.”

“Multiple sponsors, apparently.”

“No, just one. And he's out here in this arena with both of us. See, me and him, we have an understanding. He stashes his weapons with me, I kill whoever comes along. Sure, we'll have our differences later, but for now it's a great arrangement. And he'd be thrilled to know that you'd come along.”

Sherlock stopped, watching the smile spread across the man's face. “Who is he? Which tribute?”

“Make your choice, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock looked at the two hands. The berries were identical, as far as he could tell. He hated his mind, half focusing on the old man's “sponsor,” instead of focusing on the task at hand. He had always had a brilliant mind, but he was also always under ideal conditions.

He stared at the berries, or pretended to, trying to see the man's expression in his peripheral vision. The man was about to speak again, when Sherlock reached for one hand, and saw a tiny flicker in his eyes, a miniscule tensing of his muscles in his neck. Sherlock tipped the hand, rolling the berries into his own.

The man looked at him and nodded, smiling. The moment's hesitation before the two of them ate the berries told Sherlock all he needed to know. Once they had both swallowed, Sherlock held his hands clasped behind his back, waiting to hear confirmation of what he already knew.

“Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. I guess you are a proper genius.” The man didn't look despairing, but strangely at peace. He reached into his pockets and pulled out more of the berries, handing them to Sherlock. “Or maybe you're just lucky.” Sherlock took them, examining them closer now that the threat of death was removed. At least, he hoped it was. He hoped it wasn't a bluff on the man's part. But then he saw it, the slightest difference in color. It may have been more easily detectable in daylight, but at night? It was barely noticeable even to Sherlock, let alone the other tributes. The man had been right. They had plenty of strength and training, but they weren't smarter. Even Sherlock had gambled a bit, reading the man rather than his weapon of choice.

He looked up, hearing a groan. Sherlock almost left, worrying his noise would draw attention. But it was only a few more minutes before it was over.

The cannon sounded.

Sherlock dropped the berries to the ground, watching them roll to a stop below him. The old man had fallen from his seat, his body slumped on the ground with the tributes he'd killed. A fitting end.

He looked up in the trees at the blades. The man hadn't hung them there of course. He was too weak for that. But his sponsor, that was another matter entirely. The trap set him ill at ease. What if someone else were to find a way to utilize it? To attack an unsuspecting tribute, walking through the woods like he had been? What if that tribute was John? He took his knife and bent down, grabbing the pieces of wire in his hand and cutting through them. All around him there were dull thuds and swishing noises as the blades fell from the trees, lodging into the ground or clanging off the rocks. With a sickening sound, one of the makeshift guillotines landed in one of the corpses, slicing into his abdomen, the moonlight reflecting off it, hitting Sherlock in the eyes. He squinted in the single slant of light.

Whenever the hovercraft would come to retrieve bodies, they would take whatever weapons were lodged in them as well. And Sherlock decided that the old man's sponsor should have to suffer the loss of his stash. After all, his player had lost the game.

Sherlock took every weapon he could, spearing the bodies with blades and arrows. It felt macabre to do, but at least it would prevent anyone else from using them. All he kept was another knife with a better blade. The rest, the Capitol could keep.

He craned his neck back, looking up at the sky for a moment before stalking off into the woods. Minutes later, he heard the noise, the machine generated rush of wind through the trees. He turned around, looking back toward the clearing, just able to see the first body being taken up, an arrow falling from her corpse and landing on the log, its tip embedded in the dead wood.

***                    *                    ***

John had heard the cannon in the night. It had jostled him out of a doze, making his heart hammer in his chest for a few seconds. He only prayed it wasn't Sherlock.

When morning came, he ventured out of his hiding place for fresh water, making sure he paid close attention so he could retrace his steps to it later.

The night had been long, cold, and laced with intermittent panic. But no other tributes had crossed his path. He had survived the first day, and as far as he knew, so had Sherlock.

Despite everything, there was at least something calming about the arena itself. While the mountains weren't the old weathered hills of his district, they had a beauty to them, and sometimes, for a few seconds, John could almost forget that it was all created, designed by someone. It wasn't a perfect forest. It wasn't real. He just wished the rest of it all wasn't real either.

He was only about ten minutes from his shelter when he heard the gasping. He followed the sound, gun at the ready, just in case.

When he rounded a section of rocks, he saw the body on the ground. He let his hand fall to his side, his stomach suddenly lead.

It was one of the child tributes, a little girl of maybe nine or ten years old. She had been stabbed in the stomach, a wound that would cause a slow bleed, a long death. Whoever had done it could have put her out of her misery, but had decided instead to let her linger, to let pain etch years into her young face before she died. John looked around, almost hoping that the other tribute was still nearby, that John had only interrupted their killing. But there was no sign of anyone. Just the little girl, in too much pain even for tears, her tiny body soaked in blood.

He walked over to her, kneeling beside her. She didn't cringe away from him; he wasn't even sure she could. Her blue eyes stared up blindly for a few seconds, the filtered slants of light coming through the trees making her squint, before they shifted just a little bit, to watch John. He had never seen such hopelessness. Her hand pressed against her stomach, trying either to futilely stop the bleeding or trying to somehow dull the pain.

John rested a hand on her head, gently ruffling her hair as he considered the options. Stay with her while she died. Leave and pretend he'd never seen her. End the suffering.

He glanced at the gun in his other hand. While he always maintained that he could never kill a child, there had been times back home where, at the parents' request, he had been called to end their child's suffering. But those scenarios had always felt so clinical. He had always reserved the gun for adult lost causes. The children were always given something from the precious stores of medication to end their pain, a quiet and mostly comfortable death.

He had never dreamed of a situation like this. 

The girl reached out a bloody hand and grabbed his wrist, her fingerprints smearing on John's skin. She pulled his hand closer, her fingers trying to grab hold of the metal of the gun, but the blood made it too slick. Finally her hand dropped, and tears welled up in her eyes. She choked out a few words, her voice breaking, “Make it stop. It hurts. _Make it stop._ ” She clamped her eyes shut, her hand falling back to her stomach as she winced.

John looked around the woods, looking even to the sky, hoping the cannon would sound, hoping they would come and take her body away like vultures. But the bleed was too slow to draw them in. It could be hours before they finally came.

John held the gun against the girl's head, and watched as she breathed out a sigh of relief.

He shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.

***                    *                    ***

He couldn't go looking for water. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was stand and walk away. But the walk turned to a run as he heard the cannon sound. The vultures would be there soon.

John collapsed on the floor of his shelter, dropping the gun to the ground beside him. He pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face against his arms as he hyperventilated. He fought back tears, barely successful. He heard Sherlock's voice in his head, bits and pieces of conversation echoing.

_“Then pray that they die quick deaths.”_

_“I don't want them to die at all.”_

_“But they will, John. You know that as well as I do. Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances.”_

_“It goes against everything I've ever believed.”_

_“Your beliefs don't matter anymore. You are no longer John Watson. You are a tribute.”_

***                    *                    ***

That night, the sky came to life showing the fallen tributes. And while John was grateful to not see Sherlock's face, he felt like he was being strangled when they showed the little girl. Her name, he'd never even known her name till he saw it beneath her picture – Claudette Bruhl.

He saw her face plastered there for all to see, all its innocence preserved in the special photo. But every picture of her now would be tainted in John's mind by her corpse, by the smeared bloody fingerprints that still encircled his wrist.

He saw her face a thousand times that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Certain Slant of Light](http://www.online-literature.com/dickinson/830/)


	5. Go to the Devil, the Lord Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He felt sick, nausea and dizziness rising up inside him, and as he felt himself fall, knees crashing into the ground, he heard a cannon. And as his world went black, he wondered if it was for him."

 

For the first time, John could understand how Harry had become an alcoholic.

He walked numbly through the woods. Sleep had never come. Everything had been the girl all night. She was burned onto the inside of his eyelids.

His adrenaline was beginning to fade, though, and he was starting to feel weighted down, starting to truly feel the exhaustion and the screaming ache of his tense muscles. He had found water – there were streams enough for that – and knew he should find something to eat, but the very thought of food turned his stomach.

Then the woods exploded.

The first explosion nearly knocked John to his knees. He grabbed on to a tree, trying to steady himself, looking wildly around for any indication of what had happened. He saw the smoke less than twenty feet from him, some of the nearby trees fighting to not catch fire, the dead leaves below them burning.

John waited for the smoke to clear a little, trying to make sense of it. There were no other tributes around as far as he knew. He walked a few steps closer, the smoke stinging his eyes as he tried to see what had caused the explosion.

The woods exploded again, this time several feet closer, shattered pieces of wood and bark flying at John like shrapnel. No, not _like_ shrapnel. It _was_ shrapnel, pieces of metal, sharp as knives.

A gust of wind coursed through the trees, making the burning dead leaves swirl around him. And then he saw them. Mines, tucked under the dirt and leaves all around him, sun glinting off their dark surfaces. But why would they go off when he wasn't near them?

And then John realized, as a third mine burst, _they_ were setting them off.

He ran.

***                    *                    ***

Not all of the arena could be covered in landmines, it had to be just this section of woods. He had to get away from them. He ran as fast as he could, his eyes on the ground, praying he wouldn't step on one, finishing the Capitol's job for them.

There were explosions all around him. He'd long since lost track of how many. It all blended into one long cacophony, a rain of smoke and fire. The smell of the world burning around him choked him, the clouds of smoke making it steadily harder to see.

Smaller pieces of shrapnel would hit him, leaving small cuts on his hands and face. In shielding his eyes, he didn't see the mine closest to him, and when it burst, he felt the metal shards slice into his shoulder, a hot screaming pain ripping through him. He could feel the first warmth of blood on his skin. But he kept running.

John could tell when he'd broken away from the mines. The booming continued behind him, but he had stumbled onto solid rock, and there was no hiding place for mines. He kept climbing, higher and higher up the slope of stone, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. When it leveled out, he stopped, walking across the rock for a few feet before sitting down, his back leaning against the face of the cliff that towered above him. He had found his way onto a small ledge overlooking the hollow. Far off, he could see the wisps of smoke begin to clear, the wind blowing them away. He heard a cannon. Someone had not been as lucky as him.

He held pressure on his shoulder, waiting for the bleeding to stop. John had always wondered what it felt like to be shot, and now he was confident he had a good idea. The pain wouldn't subside, even after he had controlled the bleeding. It came at him with a vengeance, sharper and stronger every time he tried to move. Until now, his panic had been kept it at bay, long enough for him to get to safety. But now that he sat alone, half-concealed on his ledge, his body gave up, no longer able to pretend he hadn't had his shoulder torn apart. He teased away the ripped pieces of fabric to get a better look at the wound. Best-case scenario, he would have a bright star burst of a scar. But he was alive.

After a few hours, there was hardly any evidence of the destruction that he could see. No more smoke, no more active fires. But anyone down on the ground would likely be able to see the evidence, the broken pieces of trees, the burned leaves, the pockmarked earth. John would always see the evidence etched into his own skin.

The days were short, and it seemed John only blinked and it was late in the afternoon. Had he fallen asleep? He felt hungover and miserable, and his arm still protested at the slightest provocation.

He tucked himself back as close as he could against the rock wall, and wondered how safe it would be to stay the night.

John let his eyes fall shut. He had nearly fallen asleep when he heard the beeping. He opened his eyes, looking around for the source, thinking his brain was creating the noise, or misinterpreting a bird call. But then, a minute later, after the sound grew steadily closer, a silver parachute fluttered into view, a box attached to it. It skittered to a stop on the rock ledge a few feet away from him.

Doing his best to ignore the pain, John pushed himself close enough to reach it, dragging it back to him. Inside was a small cup of water and a cloth, and a separate container filled with a thick cream. Attached was a note in curly script that said, “I knew what they liked.” It was signed with a dramatically written “IA.” The note drew a small smile from John. If he made it out of here, he would have to thank her, somehow.

He took the cloth and clean water, grateful she had thought of such a small detail, and washed away the blood and dirt. He could see the wound more clearly after that. It wasn't quite a puncture or a tear, but it was a nasty wound either way, and all he could hope for was that it didn't get infected. He took a liberal amount of the cream and smeared it over the wound, trying to work it into the cuts as best as he could. He could almost feel it take effect. Whatever Irene had managed to get for him wasn't just to heal the wound, but to numb the pain a little as well. It seemed to have some type of anesthetic properties. John gave a relieved laugh, resting his head against the rock behind him, the desperation he had felt all day fading some.

There was no way he could leave today. He would have to stay on his ledge for the night, healing and resting. But he found it unlikely that anyone would spot him, and he had reached a point where he'd come to terms with the fact that the arena didn't always offer you a choice.

Night moved in, and John continued to add new layers of the cream to his skin as each one dried. It still hurt, but it was nothing like the searing pain from earlier, and part of him suspected he would have pain in that shoulder in some capacity for the rest of his life. But it was no longer oozing blood, the edges of his skin held together well, and the smaller cuts around the main wound already turning to scars. The air was colder than the night before, but John thought that at least it might help with the swelling.

When the moon was already high in the sky, he heard the noises below him. He craned his neck to see over the edge, and immediately jerked his head back out of sight. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle his own breathing. Below him, a pack of tributes had come in from the direction opposite the mines. He couldn't hear them all that well from so high up, but they talked amongst themselves for quite a while, and then he realized they had set up camp for the night. After nearly an hour, John had enough courage to try and look over the ledge again, and sure enough, one tribute stood watch over his sleeping comrades down in the hollow. John sat back, cursing to himself under his breath as he added another layer of medication onto his shoulder. Of all the places in these goddamn woods, they had had to choose this one. He only prayed they didn't find him. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke, to escape death once that day and to have it resting below him that night.

John tried to think. _How do I get away without them knowing?_ And as soon as he thought it, he answered himself:

_I don't._

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock had followed the pack of tributes all day at a safe distance. It wasn't that he found them particularly interesting. In fact, all he had concluded in his day of tracking them was that they were uncouth and imbecilic. If they were to survive the arena, it wouldn't be through wits. He had followed them for his own sake. Once he determined that they weren't the tactical sort of tributes, he decided they wouldn't think to look where they'd already been. Thus far, he had been correct. They hunted through the woods, killing one tribute who was in their path, but they never once looked behind them. So Sherlock had followed, usually so far behind that he could barely see them, but always close enough that they wouldn't turn to cover the same ground again. It would keep him safe enough for now.

After night had fallen, he slowed his pace, not wanting to stumble upon them. He hadn't planned this far, had never considered that he would actually live through another day, and so he had made no provisions for what he would do for the night.

Taking careful, quiet steps, he finally reached the edge of the clearing. The tributes had set themselves up for the night, a large man standing guard for the first watch. He took cover immediately, crouching down behind some evergreen branches, watching the man, making sure he hadn't been heard. The man stood unmoving, oblivious to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock considered killing him, of sneaking up and slitting his throat, maybe even killing the others in their sleep. But it was too big a risk, a battle that he couldn't guarantee he'd win, and Sherlock still didn't _want_ to kill anyone. So he allowed them their rest at the base of the rocks.

A flicker of movement farther up the cliff drew his gaze away from the man. He squinted in the faint moonlight, thinking the Capitol had inserted some wild animals into their arena. But there was a small glimmer as light hit something metallic. Sherlock's thoughts instantly went back to the guillotines, the blades hung in the trees. Was this more of that tribute's work? The one who had “sponsored” the old man?

No. The movement was from something very much alive. Not an animal, either. A person.

Sherlock shifted in the trees, trying to get a better vantage point. From his angle, he could just make out the dark form of a shadow sitting against the cliff on a ledge above the other tributes. After a moment, the shadow shifted, moving closer to the edge, scoping out the tributes just as Sherlock had. And in a second of illumination where the figure was not thrown entirely into blackness, Sherlock got a quick look at his face. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have gleaned anything from that brief moment of sight. The man sat back against the cliff wall, thrown back into hiding.

Originally, Sherlock had considered moving on that night. But the single flash of John's face made him pause, and finally he settled back in his own hiding place, deciding to wait out the night, even if only on the off chance that John would need his help.

The idea of having to kill one of the tributes didn't bother Sherlock nearly as much as it had that morning.

 

* * *

 

He knew that the longer he stayed there, the more likely he was to be caught and killed.

John had hoped that when morning came, the pack of tributes would leave, but sunrise came and went and they still stayed, talking amongst themselves about the Games, eating leisurely. They knew they were a force to be reckoned with, and it made them indifferent. Why should they leave when they could just kill whoever came along instead?

The night of medicine had helped his shoulder a great deal, although it was still stiff. John couldn't complain about aches and pains when it could have been so much worse. The container was empty now, all of it having been used on the mine wound.

He sat cross-legged on his ledge, looking out over the hollow, hearing the voices of the tributes below him. There had to be a way out that wouldn't give his position away.

He took a risk, moving closer to the edge to get a better look at his options. The tributes had moved farther away from the base of the cliff. They were standing around, laughing and talking. The laughter seemed so sick.

And there it was, half-uncovered by the windy night. He hadn't thought the mines stretched this far, but apparently there were a few outliers. The tributes either hadn't noticed it or didn't think it worth paying attention to. If it went off, it would at the very least injure them. It might even kill one of them, even though John didn't really want that to be the case. It only needed to throw them off enough for him to get down the rock slope and get the hell away.

John rolled his shoulder, trying to break the morning stiffness, and reached for his gun. He would have one shot. It was a risk. But then, everything in the arena was.

He got down on one knee, bracing himself as he aimed, the dusty, metallic target of the mine taunting him. One chance. One shot, and then run.

He fired, startling the tributes and hitting the mine. But the shot hadn't set the mine off. The tributes looked around, confused, even scared for a moment, not knowing where the shot had come from. But then one of them turned and looked up, meeting his eyes. John froze, the man opening his mouth to speak, but jerking his head around when he heard the hissing noise.

There was something coming from the mine, smoke, but white like morning fog. The fog began to come from more places, seeping up out of the ground from other unseen mines in a chain reaction. Were they defective?

The female tribute was standing closest to the fog, and her eyes changed. Something in them looked _wrong_. John wasn't sure what it was, and neither were her allies. But an unease settled over the hollow, and as the clouds of fog climbed higher and reached his hiding place, he backed away from it, grabbed his gun, and started skidding down the rock slope.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock had gone out walking alone early that morning, needing a reprieve before spending the day on guard as he followed the other tributes. Or maybe he wouldn't follow them. Maybe he would let them leave, and would wait for John to come down, and just align himself with him instead. Even if it was only for a few days, even if they were eventually forced to part ways and become enemies, he would take the numbered days. They were better than nothing.

He hated his sentimentality, hated how much he missed those other numbered days, back in the Capitol. Even then it was hard to forget that they were pretending, that it was all a pageant before a slaughter, but those few moments when they could forget, those were what he missed. The thought that even that would be taken away from them in the end made him bitter.

As he walked through the trees, a woman broke out from the woods. She had been running, and fast, and tripped, falling to the ground in front of Sherlock. He pulled his knife out on instinct, holding it out in front of him. The woman looked up, panting and horrified, her eyes flitting to the knife and then to his face. She was the girl from District 8, the one John had always looked at so sympathetically. Molly.

She stared him down, her fear fading and turning to resolve. Did she think he was about to kill her? Sherlock kept his hand wrapped around his knife, but he pulled it back to his side.

There was a sharp crack, an echo of a gunshot reverberating throughout the woods. Sherlock jerked his head toward the noise. He heard Molly get to her feet, and then heard the sound of her crashing back through the trees, running away. Sherlock heard one far-off scream, and ran back the way he came, only one thought in his mind.

_John._

***                    *                    ***

When Sherlock broke back into the hollow, it was chaos. The tributes stood raving, the two men at each other, the woman at nothing. She was on her knees, her hands clapped over her ears. They were surrounded by morning fog.

Sherlock's eyes followed the flash of movement, of John coming down into the hollow, hazy behind the wall of fog. When he reached the forest floor, he stopped, whirling around, gun in hand, trying to find a predator that was always hiding just out of sight. His eyes were growing wilder by the moment. The other tributes didn't even seem to know John or Sherlock were there.

Sherlock ran to him, deeper into the fog, and grabbed him by the shoulder. John swung at him, and Sherlock had to hold his arms to keep him from attacking again. His eyes were not the eyes Sherlock knew. They were panicked. They were mad. Sherlock tried to talk to him, to get his attention, but no words seemed to get through. He let go of John's arms, told him they had to run before the other tributes killed them, but John stood paralyzed, staring at the ranting men across the hollow as the woman screamed again. Sherlock yelled at him to run, and something finally snapped inside John. He stared at Sherlock for one long second, and then bolted. Sherlock watched him go, and was about to start after him when he began to feel odd, lightheaded. And as he looked toward the three tributes, he understood.

It wasn't morning fog.

***                    *                    ***

John saw Sherlock in front of him, but that couldn't be real, could it? He was leading him away from the fog, talking to him. But John couldn't hear a word he said. He couldn't hear over the sound of the blood pouring down the trees and cliffs and the growls that seemed to come from every direction. The female tribute screamed, but no sound came out, and blood poured from her eyes and open mouth. _So much blood!_ Sherlock's hands were on him. He was still speaking, but every word seemed to die in his throat.

When Sherlock suddenly disappeared, John ran.

The fallen logs became monsters, teeth snapping at his feet. His feet pounded on what should have been solid rock, what should have been the ground, but instead the world gave way beneath him, tilting on an axis before falling away from under him entirely. Impossible. He knew that was impossible. But it kept happening, and all he could do was run from the growling, run from the teeth, run from the splashing sound of blood in pools under his feet.

He rounded some rocks, his hand grabbing them for balance, and then jerking away when he saw his hand covered in blood. He spun around, trying to figure out where to go, when he saw the body.

There was a corpse in front of him. Sherlock's corpse, laid out on the ground in that big gray coat. No, that couldn't be real. They wouldn't have let him wear that into the arena. The body was rotted, the face pale. Weren't they supposed to remove the dead from the arena? They weren't supposed to be left to rot. So why was Sherlock's body at his feet, and how could he make it go away?

John stared at the empty eyes of his friend, his heart hammering. He felt sick, nausea and dizziness rising up inside him, and as he felt himself fall, knees crashing into the ground, he heard a cannon. And as his world went black, he wondered if it was for him.

***                    *                    ***

Stupid, _stupid_! Of course the fog wasn't fog.

Sherlock backed away from the hollow. The tributes were going in and out like static, reappearing and disappearing, their shouts and screams flashing in and out with them.

He had to get out. Had to run. Had to find John.

When he ran from the hollow, he hoped the drug wasn't too far in his system yet, that he would be spared the worst of it if he got out. But there were guillotine blades falling from the trees all around him like deadly fruit. He would not be spared.

He came to a stop at a dead halt in the middle of the forest. There was someone standing in front of him, someone eerily calm. A familiar face wearing a smile that wasn't his. John stood there, not in the sleek black of their arena clothes, but in dark jeans and a white shirt, holding a gun on him. Someone had stolen him, hijacked his face. John would never look at him like that, never with that malicious grin. Sherlock knew that. But he still worried that it was real. He could feel the metal of the gun against his chest as John walked closer to him, even though he was still feet away.

“This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock wanted to turn and run the other way, but the fog was the other way. He was frozen in his place, watching John go in and out like the other tributes had, reappearing a little bit closer every time.

“Bet you never saw _this_ coming.”

Closer, closer. “John...” His face was less than a foot from his. The eyes were still all wrong. Not John. The face flickered in and out, distorting as it did.

“What...would you like me...to make him say... _next_?” As he spoke, the twisted smile, the twisted face, it became someone else. The man from District 1, Jim Moriarty. He wore a crown like he had in the parade, and that false grin, that horrible grin, it became his entire field of vision. And the words came out like a hiss, “ _I'll stop his heart_.”

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut for a moment, and then glared at the face in front of him, telling himself over and over _not real not real_ , and ran through it. He could hear laughter, could feel the man's eyes on him still.

Then he heard his own voice, strangled and unsure. Cannons deafened him, and he sank to the ground, hands over his ears. And then he heard his own words parroted back to him, grating, echoing like the screeches of birds through the forest:

“ _There is nothing wrong with me!_ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Go to the Devil, the Lord Said](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4ovLrvq2do)


	6. Sinnerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They had never really stood a chance. Even if you spent your whole life in your district, never reaped, and even rarer, never starving, you still never really stood a chance."

 

Sherlock woke up on a hillside in the forest, covered in leaves and dirt and god knows what else. He sat up, brushing himself off, his head pounding. Where in the arena had he ended up?

_John_. _Where was John?_

He sat paralyzed for a moment, plagued by the thought that he hadn't made it, that the hovercraft had long since come for his body while he was unconscious.

How long had it even been?

He ran his hands through the leaves around him and felt the cold metal of his knife blade. He must have dropped it when he blacked out. Small blessings. He held it up to the light, staring at it, and then he heard the bang of a cannon, once, and then again a minute later. He looked off in the direction of the faint sound. More competition had been eliminated. It was a miracle that no one had found Sherlock. He'd come very close to being another forgotten face.

When he stood, the world spun some, and he had to grab on to a nearby tree for support. But he slowly made his way down the hillside.

_Should never have breathed so deeply. Hope there wasn't long term damage._

He stopped his train of thought. It was senseless to worry about the long term, wasn't it?

At the base of the hill, he heard the sound of rushing water. The trees gave way to massive boulders and a stone riverbed that allowed people to walk alongside the water, albeit out in the open. It was a fast mountain river, narrow and nonthreatening, speckled with occasional small cascades as it went downhill.

Sherlock sat down at the edge of the treeline, just enough to not be in plain sight, and rubbed at his eyes. He would get something to drink in a minute when he didn't feel so damn miserable. Was this what normal people felt like all the time? So scattered and useless?

Then something sharp collided with his head, cold metal followed by hot blood. His body tried to shut itself down, not wanting to deal with another trauma, but Sherlock fought it, keeping himself up with his hands pressed into the ground. When the spots cleared from his vision, he saw her, the unmistakable fiery hair. She was armed like a soldier with as many weapons as one person could manage, and she had a weighty spear pointed at Sherlock's chest, the tip of it bright red with his own blood.

“You remember me, Mr. Holmes? Because I certainly remember you. I'm a _big_ fan.”

“Kitty.”

She smiled. “The great Sherlock Holmes. Where's your pet? You two are very close, aren't you? Platonic?” She laughed. “How did you two get separated? Lose your way?” She made a face, a false expression of pity. “You know Jim? The man from my district? He's a big fan of you, too. You and your pet. He wanted you all to himself, Jim. He was hoping he'd...stumble across you in the arena.” She dragged the tip of the spear across his cheek. “Too bad. But at least if I see him again, I'll have one hell of a story for him. And if I get back to District 1, it will be the story of a _lifetime_.” Her smiled broadened as she looked down at him, smug and malicious.

Sherlock raised one hand up, a simple gesture of surrender. Kitty drew her weapon back just a little. He gave her a look that he hoped came across as resigned and hopeless, like he knew he would soon be dead. It pleased her.

He paused, hand in midair and blood pouring down the side of his face, wishing he had more time for a better plan. But his fight or flight response screamed in his head, his body refusing to play second to his mind this time.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and jerked it backwards, shoving Kitty and throwing her off balance. He sprang to his feet and ran for the river, knowing he had precious few seconds of a head start. His eyes flew everywhere, searching for an out, his options scarce as his feet pounded on the rocks.

A whistling shot by his ear, followed by the clatter of the spear skidding across the stone. He could hear her footsteps, competing with his own, a guttural sound escaping her throat and echoing in the canyon around them.

The river grew closer and closer as he ran, and when the time came, he jumped.

He landed hard on the other side, falling, the rock colliding with his kneecap. He tried to stand, but the pain was still too fresh.

Behind him, he saw Kitty gaining speed, planning to jump the water too, and he pushed himself a few feet back away from the water's edge, trying to force himself again and again to stand, but tripping over cracks and stones in his rush.

She lunged at him, making her leap across the water. But Sherlock had half a foot on her in height, and he watched the change in her eyes as she realized her mistake. She hit the edge of the rocks on his side of the river, and though she scrambled, her hands clawing for a grip on the slick stone around her, she failed. The current was too strong, and soon she disappeared from view, falling into the river.

Sherlock waited, expecting her to emerge like a monster, ready to destroy again. He looked downriver, looking for signs of her surfacing. But none came. It made no sense. The river wasn't that dangerous. And while it could certainly knock her down, it didn't even look deep enough to drown in.

After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet, limping a little as he walked to the water's edge. He stared down into the water, trying to find the missing piece. What had he missed? What detail?

The cannon sounded.

Sherlock looked down the river, but no body had surfaced, and no hovercraft came. She had disappeared.

He laid down on his stomach by the water and pushed his arm into the river, trying to gauge the depth. But he never found the riverbed.

He sat back, suddenly wary of the river. The Gamemakers did love a good deception.

The warmth of blood continued to spread over his face. He wiped some away with his wet hand, his fingers coming back red.

He stood and left, continuing across the dry stretch of riverbed, and then upriver into the mountains.

He did not mourn her passing once.

 

* * *

 

 

John slowly opened his eyes, his vision filled by the canopy of leafless trees above him. It took him a moment to realize that those trees meant he was still alive. Part of him wanted them to be the trees of home, the woods he and Mary would hunt in, and that he was only here, passed out on the forest floor, from some accident.

But as he sat up, Mary was nowhere to be found, and the forest was unmistakable.

As the fog cleared from his head he heard the rushed and panting breathing from a few feet away. The girl from eight, Molly, backed up against a nearby boulder, a knife held out in front of her. She tried to steel herself, but her hands trembled. As John looked around the little clearing, surrounded by thick brush, supplies and weapons scattered around, he finally pieced it all together. He propped himself up with one hand and held the other out, palm to Molly, a silent _stop_. Her pose wasn't offensive, but defensive. She wasn't going to kill him.

“I won't hurt you.” She watched him skeptically, the winter wind tearing at her long hair. After a while, she came closer, and John saw some of her things sitting beside him, where she'd likely been moments before. She still held the knife in her hand, but she no longer pointed it at him.

With her free hand, she reached out and pushed a small cup toward him without saying a word. When he picked it up, he saw it was water. She had dry ration food nearby as well, tucked into an open backpack. Cornucopia bounty, no doubt. He drank, not even knowing how parched he was until the water hit his throat. It almost hurt. Once Molly watched him drain the entire cup, she finally resumed her spot next to him, sitting comfortably rather than crouching in preparation of fight. He held the cup out to her, and she took it with her free hand, setting it down on the dirt and refilling it before handing it back.

“I can't take your supplies.”

“I know where to find water. Drink. Keep that down, and I'll give you something to eat.”

“Molly, right?”

“Yes.”

“I'm John.”

“I know. You and Sherlock Holmes, you're the men from District 12.”

“How long have I been out?”

“At least a day. You were already unconscious when I found you. What happened?”

John started to speak, but stopped. “Give me a minute, maybe I'll be able to tell you.”

“Was it the same as whatever happened to that group of three tributes? Or do you remember them at all? You weren't far from them. I found them just before I found you.”

“Are they dead?”

She nodded. “They were taking the first one away when I got there.”

“The last thing I remember...was shooting at a mine, and this thick fog...” He shook his head. The hallucinations sprang back to life. “It wasn't fog. It was a drug. You said they were dead? God I hope it isn't fatally toxic.”

Her brow furrowed. “They didn't die from any fog. It looked like they were killed. I thought they turned on each other.”

“Hallucinogens in groups of violent people, bad mix.”

“Anyway, they were definitely dead. One of them had a spear sticking out of him. And they were on the sky last night, when they showed the people who had died.”

“And who else was on that list? What I mean is, was –”

“Sherlock wasn't on it. He's alive as far as I can tell. I haven't seen him since the other day.”

“No, I think he ran off too.” John tried to sit up properly, to stretch out the tense muscles and joints. There were makeshift bandages on his arms and in some spots on his hands, made from pieces of cloth. He held out one arm, surveying the first aid work.

“I think you had tried to break your fall and got scraped up a little.”

“It's good work.”

She shrugged, reaching for the backpack and pulling out a couple of packages. “I originally wanted to be a healer, like you, back in the district. But there were always more dead people than living ones, so I ended up working on them instead, when I wasn't in the factories. But the basics are still there, even though I never got a chance to use them much.” She smiled a little. “I've worked with dead people a lot. I'm glad you weren't one of them.”

“Why did you help me? You could have left me and let someone come along and kill me. It would make you one step closer to going home.”

She passed him some food. “I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“Neither do I.”

“I know I'm not an arena type. I'm not aggressive. I'm not strong. I'm not even all that brave. I'm not a killer. When they called my name, I thought, this is how I finally die. There's no sense in causing anyone else any pain before I do.”

“You were brave enough to take a chance saving me.”

“I didn't think you were an arena type either. You didn't seem that way back in the Capitol.”

“How many people are left?”

“I don't know. I haven't been counting. Not too many, I imagine.”

John nodded, running his hands over himself, not feeling the gun anywhere. He felt his heart start pounding when Molly handed it to him. The cold metal felt heavy in his hands, but at least it looked like it belonged there. It had only looked horrible in her hands.

“I didn't want it lost, but I didn't know if you'd be in your right mind when you woke up. _If_ you woke up.”

“Thank you. I can't repay you for all this.”

“It's fine. Sometimes we have to look out for each other. Even in the arena. We're still human, after all.”

_Are we, really?_ John couldn't stop the thought. He'd had it so many times since the Games started. The Capitol certainly didn't treat them like humans. No, they were just pieces on the board. Was Molly naïve, or just hopeful?

“The man from my district is still alive too. Mike. I don't think there's many more where both of the people are still alive. I'm glad Sherlock's okay, as far as we know.”

John nodded absently, taking a tentative bite of his food.

“Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

“That you saved his life?”

“He gives me more credit than I probably deserve. But yeah, my father and I did put him back together again.”

“What happened?”

“A house collapsed on him.”

“That's awful.”

“He bounced back easily enough. He's tougher than people think.”

“You two seemed like really good friends, during the training days. You seemed pretty close.” Molly was watching him with a careful sort of apprehension, asking a question that she didn't want to say out loud. But John said nothing. He couldn't very well tell her that so much of what she and all the others saw was an act. But that wasn't all of it. Part of him wasn't even sure he knew the answer to her silent question. It wasn't as if life in the arena had given him much time to think it over. When he stayed silent, she said, “Is he nice? He seemed nice.”

John laughed a little under his breath. “He's impossible.”

“I rather like him, I think. He's already spared my life once.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “We stumbled across each other in the woods. He could have easily killed me. But he didn't.”

“He doesn't want to kill anyone.”

“The way he acts, I figured he might be one of those people who could sort of detach enough to kill someone, if he had to. A bit like a machine.”

“No, he doesn't want to kill anyone any more than we do. Honestly. I don't know what he would do if he _had_ to kill someone.”

“I haven't killed anyone. Not yet.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“They killed each other, John. You set the fog off, but they killed each other. You didn't even know.”

He shook his head, shutting his eyes for a second as he blocked the images that rose to the surface of his brain. “No, not them. I – I found someone. They'd been attacked, but not enough to kill them. They got left with a slow bleed. I didn't want to watch them suffer any more than they already had.”

She set the knife down beside her and reached out, laying her hand on his shoulder. It was such a simple gesture, and it seemed so out of place in the arena. It was _human_. She looked at him with sympathy, her usual faint smile faded. She didn't look like the hopeful young woman for a moment. Right then, John could see everything she had seen, both at home and in the Games, etched into her face.

They had never really stood a chance. Even if you spent your whole life in your district, never reaped, and even rarer, never starving, you still never really stood a chance.

How many days did everyone spend just surviving, instead of living?

“You aren't a killer.”

“How do you figure that?”

“You said so yourself. In your interview. You're a healer. It's not in your nature.”

No, in nature, animals killed without a second thought. Whatever it took to stay alive. _This_ was nature. Your own nature wasn't something you were allowed out here. He'd already done things he would never have considered doing before. Nature, be it a forest or a person's, was all just transient. You could never count on its constancy.

“I don't want to kill. I _know_ I couldn't kill Mike.”

“I couldn't kill Sherlock.”

She let her hand fall. “I saw the last of the children on the list of dead last night. I don't know whether to be grateful or sad.”

“Neither do I.”

“I have no illusions that I'm victor material. But I'm not going to do anymore damage than I have to. I've just been hiding. It's my only chance, hiding and hoping everyone else gets killed first. No offense.”

“None taken. That's what I wanted to do too.”

She paused, tripping over her words a little. “You...you said you couldn't kill Sherlock. Do you think he could kill you?”

“No. Maybe he _could_. But I don't think he _would_.”

“Why?”

“Sherlock's an odd character. You just have to read him as best as you can. And I don't believe he would kill me.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Your faith in him. It's nice.” Her little smile returned as she filled the cup again, taking a drink from it herself this time. “It may sound silly, but it's nice to see something like that out here. Faith.”

John wasn't sure how much faith was involved, especially when it felt so much like fact to him. But he let her have it. Everyone needed something to give them hope.

There was a rustling in some of the bushes nearby. John tensed up and raised his gun, but Molly only glanced over her shoulder, looking totally unfazed. Seconds later, a bird shot out from the branches, flying past them. When Molly looked at John, she laughed.

“Sorry. I guess I've gotten used to them. I've been using this spot for a while.”

“What was that thing?”

“It was one of the thieving magpies. There's quite a few of them nearby.”

“Is that what I've been hearing make all that racket in the trees out here?”

She laughed again. “Probably. They seem almost upset without anything good to parrot back. I don't think they like making up their own songs.”

John looked in the direction the bird had flown and saw it perched on a branch high up in a tree, staring down at them with its head cocked to the side.

“At least they can't mimic our voices.”

“No, just melodies.”

“Small blessings.”

“Their songs are quite pretty, actually.”

“Are they true to their name? Do they try and steal things, I mean? I haven't had much experience with them.”

“No, at least, none of these have tried to steal from me. Not yet, anyway.”

John watched as the bird took off again, flying off into the woods till John could no longer see it.

“You said you'd been staying here a while. You haven't been found by someone?”

“I almost was, once. I think they herded someone toward me. But I got out in time. I had another knife, but I dropped it when I was running. They took it, but I got everything else out. I waited for a few hours, to make sure it was safe to come back. It's a nice spot. You wouldn't be able to find it easily unless you were led here. Otherwise, chances of just stumbling across it are slim.”

“But you found it.”

“I followed the birds. I thought that if a roost was safe enough for them, then it might be safe enough for me. Birds don't like being bothered.”

“Do you think they'll run you out eventually? Not the birds, I mean.”

“Probably. But I'll take what I can get. One day at a time.”

He repeated the phrase, trying to make it mean something, “One day at a time.”

How could you take things one day at a time when your days feel so terribly numbered?

***                    *                    ***

John thought little of the world as a whole sometimes, and given his situation, no one would have faulted him for this being one of those times. But Molly had a sort of infectious innocent optimism about her that made it more difficult for him to be bitter and scared.

He spent the day in her hiding place, feeling more and more like himself the more rest he got. It struck him how incredibly lucky he was that he was given a chance to recover at all. And Molly did whatever she could to help, even if most of the time that was just hanging around to talk, usually in quiet voices just in case there were other tributes nearby.

Now and then, one of the thieving magpies would swoop past them, always drawing a smile from Molly, and later in the day, one from John as well.

She talked more than he did. He never knew what to say. But she didn't seem to mind and told him all sorts of things about her district, about their industry and what sort of place it was. When she told him how urban, how industrial it was, it seemed dissonant. Molly didn't look like someone who lived surrounded by gray buildings. She looked at home out here in the woods, like she was meant for it. But everything she told him about District 8 gave him a bleak mental image incongruous with the kind of world he associated people like Molly with.

When night fell, they lit no fire, and their conversation grew quieter. The darkness made them speak less, bringing out an instinctive vigilance in them. Dangers seemed much more severe when you could hardly see them. But no one came, and their night stretched on in peace.

Molly stood watch while John caught a few hours of sleep, and when he woke up, she was sitting a few feet away from him, barely visible in the shadows of the brush around her, humming to herself.

“What's that?”

He couldn't really see her face, but he saw her head move as she looked up. “What's what?”

“That song you're humming?”

“Oh,” she said sheepishly. She moved a few feet closer so he could see her, looking around at the forest rather than him. “It's just a song from home. One of those traditional things that you grow up hearing so much that you know it without ever having to learn it.”

“Sing it?”

“I don't really sing. I'm no good.”

“Come on. Humor me with some District 8 music.”

She looked at him for a moment before staring at the ground, and after a while she did start singing, quietly, almost under her breath.

 

_Oh, Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?  
_ _Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?  
_ _Where you gonna run to?  
_ All along that day.

_Well I run to the rock, “Please hide me.”  
_ _I run to the rock, “Please hide me.”  
_ _I run to the rock, “Please hide me,”  
_ All along that day.

_But the rock cried out, “I can't hide you.”  
_ _The rock cried out, “I can't hide you.  
_ _“I can't hide you,”  
_ All along that day.

_So I run to the river, it was bleeding.  
_ _I run to the sea it was bleeding.  
_ _I run to the sea, it was bleeding,  
_ All along that day. 

_So I run to the Lord, “Please hide me, Lord.  
_ _Don't you see me praying?”  
_ _But the Lord said, “Go to the devil.”  
_ _The Lord said, “Go to the devil,”  
_ All along that day.

 

She almost continued, her lips parted, poised for another verse, but she stopped and gave him a self-deprecating sort of smile. “Those traditional songs are sort of dark when you really think about it, aren't they?”

“Pretty though. And appropriate, I think.” She nodded slowly. “Does anyone ever help them? The person in the song?”

“Not really.”

“What happens?”

“He goes to the devil, and the devil was waiting for him.”

***                    *                    ***

John let Molly sleep the rest of the night, positive that she'd gotten little to none while watching over him. The least he could do in return was watch over her for a while.

She shouldn't have been in this arena. She was too good for it.

When morning came, Molly woke with the sun and was only foggy from sleep for a couple of minutes before she set about what John assumed was her daily routine. She shared her food with him again, even though he'd protested, and walked with him to show him the nearby stream where she'd been getting her water. She continued talking about whatever struck her, asking how John was feeling and what he was going to do.

John felt fine, but he had absolutely no clue what to do. He'd asked himself the same question multiple times during the night. He couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, there wouldn't be enough tributes in the arena to keep people entertained. Something would ruin the quiet safe haven. He had considered leaving as soon as she woke up, but couldn't.

In the middle of the day, when their water ran out, John offered to make the next run. He found the stream easily enough, filling Molly's bottle, and walking slowly back to their spot. What was he going to do? He would have to ask Molly where exactly in the woods they were, so he would have some sort of idea of where he should go. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally wander back into the minefields.

He heard movement behind the brush, and thinking it was either Molly moving around or the thieving magpies, he continued in.

He let the bottle drop to the ground as he reached for his gun.

There was an Asian woman on top of Molly, one hand clamped over her mouth so she couldn't scream, the other stabbing her over and over on her already blood soaked chest and stomach. When the woman realized John was there, she looked up at him, her large eyes going blank as John put the bullet through her head. She fell to the side, off of Molly, onto the cold ground.

A cannon sounded.

_No, no, no one was supposed to find this place!_

John raced to her side, falling to the ground beside her, his gun dropping to the dirt. This wasn't a slow bleed. At least one artery had been hit. There were so many open tears, so many wounds. Molly's breathing was rapid as she stared up at him, unable to speak. The blood was even in her hair, and, dammit, he was so sick of blood.

The shot would attract attention soon. But he couldn't run. Not yet.

It wasn't a slow bleed.

He held her hand, and within a minute, she was dead, the light vanishing from her eyes.

The cannon sounded.

Her grip on his hand went lax, her arm falling to the ground, her fingers slipping out of his.

And then he heard the whistling.

All around the birds flew, zigzagging in and out of the trees, all of them singing for her, singing her song. It wasn't that loud in reality, but it deafened John. It might as well have been louder than the cannons. A harmonious nightmare of birdsong.

He heard the faint noises of the hovercraft that would soon descend for their bodies. He sat back numbly, picking up his gun. They could wait.

But he couldn't. The longer he stayed the more he felt danger closing in on him. There was no way another tribute wouldn't follow the sound of the gunshot, wouldn't find the flock of birds singing their coordinated tune. He forced himself to his feet, looking down at Molly.

John almost bent down to close her eyes, but he didn't. He wanted them to have to face her. He wanted her eyes to be burned on their brains forever.

He looked up at the metallic glimmer as the craft moved a little lower. He stared it down. Even though no one inside could see him that closely, he knew every camera in this section of woods could. He felt the rage boil inside him as he stared up at the sky, at the trees around him. He should have left in silence and let the thieving magpies speak for him and Molly both. But he couldn't.

“Look at what you did to her! Look at what you've done to all of them!” How far would his voice carry? Would other tributes hear it? John didn't care. His audience would hear him, picked up on microphones, even over the growing roar of birdsong. He could have called them monsters, could have screamed curses at them. But the only other word he was able to choke out in the end was, “Why!”

The sound of a yell carried through the woods. John whirled around, hearing a tribute crashing through the forest.

When he finally ran from the horrible scene, some of the birds followed him, singing and singing. He wanted to shoot them, to silence them, to stop drawing attention toward him. But he couldn't. He could only run as they sang, hating the song. The birds finally abandoned him, one by one, the deeper he got into the woods.

And as he ran, he wondered if he was going to find the devil waiting on him, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sinnerman](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4ovLrvq2do)   
> [The Thieving Magpie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7ELStfFlZk)   
> [#3: The Bolton Strid](http://www.cracked.com/article_19705_the-5-most-spectacular-landscapes-earth-that-murder-you.html)


	7. Landslide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was an excuse, and both of them knew it. But allowing it to be anything else, anything except the game, it would have made it all too real. And given their fates in the arena, the awful truth of missed opportunities and canceled futures, it was easier to pretend they believed the act than to admit anything more."

 

John walked through the woods, infuriated that all he _could_ do was walk through the woods. Every day ran into the next, just one long progression of trying to rest and running and never seeming to find the end of the arena. It all just stretched in front of him into infinity, one long walk that would soon end.

He was numb and enraged and had never believed those two emotions could somehow exist at the same time, but they could. And exhaustion could exist with them. He wanted to scream or cry and at the same time, just wanted to curl up on the ground and never move again. No wonder Irene had turned to such a questionable lifestyle when she'd come back.

It was hours since he'd stopped caring where he was. It was all the arena, so what did it really matter? He's just walked and walked. He'd tried to sleep a little the night before, which failed miserably. So as soon as there was enough light to safely move through the woods, he'd started walking again.

The whole time, he kept the gun at the ready in his hand, but with an apathetic looseness to his grip.

He stopped at a narrow mountain river for water before heading up into the hills. The woods were rockier here, fewer hollows and trees and more craggy cliffs and boulders. It looked like good enough shelter. It was only midday, but the fatigue was finally setting in, forcing him to stop aimlessly trekking through the forest.

John sat down by some brush in front of a cliff, fiddling with his gun while he rested. His muscles would never relax, no matter how long he sat there. Everything was still tension, still arena paranoia. He wondered if tributes had ever had nervous breakdowns during the Games from the stress. It was a wonder that suicide, like the woman who stepped off her platform, wasn't more common.

“John.”

He jumped up, whirling around at the sound of the voice. He stared at the rock face of the cliff, his brow furrowing in confusion. Residual hallucinations? No, the drug should have been long gone from his system. Was this it, then? Had the arena simply broken him?

The voice said his name again, coming from in front of him. But he saw nothing.

The brush seemed to give him an exasperated sigh, and then it moved. John backed up a couple of paces, raising his gun, thinking it was stupid even as he did. You couldn't shoot a hallucination.

But someone rose from the brush, and John could see the edge of a hole in the rock. A false face.

Sherlock stood with his hand out, as if John was an animal who would be startled if he came closer. John lowered the gun, wondering why his brain would create this of all images, but as Sherlock walked toward him, he realized he was real. This was no corpse in a gray coat. It was Sherlock, in arena black, worn out and beaten just as he was.

John closed the distance in seconds, wrapping him in a hug. Sherlock stiffened in surprise, but finally laid a hand on John's back.

“John?” John could hear the confusion, but he didn't care.

He stepped back, meeting Sherlock's eyes. He was looking down at him like he was insane. And maybe he was.

John's eyes flitted to the side of Sherlock's face, and finally registered the blood. There was a lot of blood, mostly dried, covering one side of his head, staining his hands.

“Why are you covered in blood, Sherlock? Tell me, because I have had just about enough of that.”

***                    *                    ***

Once Sherlock got him to calm down some, he showed him the small, well-hidden entrance to his hiding place. John followed obediently behind him.

The hole in the rock led to a sort of cave, and John instantly began to worry that he wouldn't be able to see, but he soon saw the hole in the rock far above at the top of the cliff. It cast a good beam of light down into the cave. It wasn't as small as he'd anticipated either. There was more than enough room to stand, and while it wasn't very large across, the two of them had a fair amount of space. It was definitely large enough for the Capitol to still be watching it.

Sherlock sat down with his back against the wall, and it suddenly dawned on John how tired he was.

John knelt down beside him, trying to get a good look at the original injury.

“What happened?”

“The woman from District 1, Kitty.” He said her name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Repellant creature.” He winced when John's fingers neared the wound.

“And where is she?”

“At the bottom of a river, as I understand it.”

John could barely see the wound for all the dried blood. “I wish this was a clean injury.”

“River.”

“No, I'm not risking introducing something worse into this wound. We don't know what's in that water.” He knew Sherlock didn't really care about the logic behind it. He probably didn't care about the injury at all, but for once John hoped the cameras were on him and that Irene was paying attention. Maybe she'd find a way to get him clean water again. “How long have you been in here?”

“Since yesterday.”

John grabbed Sherlock's arm, examining it carefully to make sure the blood all over it was from the head wound and not some second injury. When he was satisfied, he let go. He sighed, sitting back cross-legged by Sherlock, staring at the stone floor of the cave. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him.

“How have you been managing?” His voice was so much smaller out here than it was in the Capitol, back when his biggest concerns had been antagonizing Mycroft and entertaining the masses.

John looked up at him. He almost spoke, almost tried to come up with some sort of answer, but nothing would come. Finally, he just shook his head.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” John answered, his voice even smaller than Sherlock's.

“Wrong.”

“What?”

“Not fine. You have dark circles under your eyes, so no sleep of any kind last night, not even bad sleep. You were gripping your gun so tightly when you saw me that your knuckles were white. You have that scar on your shoulder where your jacket's torn. And there is blood on you, and it isn't yours or mine –”

He held a hand up for him to stop, and he did, but he continued to watch him carefully, trying to read more. “The woman from District 8 is dead.”

“I know. I saw her in the sky last night. But it isn't as if she is the first person to die here, John.”

He shook his head. “No, you don't understand. She saved my life. I couldn't save hers. I saw her get killed, and all I could do was kill her killer.”

“That isn't all.”

“What?”

“You've seen plenty of bad things. That alone wouldn't be enough to wear you down like this. There's more.”

John glared at him, but continued. “I shot a child, Sherlock.”

“Explain.”

“Someone had ripped her stomach open and left her to bleed to death, however long that would have taken. She was scared and she was in pain.”

“Mercy killing, then.”

“A _child_ , Sherlock.”

“John, you can let yourself get caught up in guilty consciences all you want, but there are many worse things you could have done in this arena than put a suffering child out of her misery.”

John was silent, but his clenched jaw slowly relaxed. He took a deep breath, his voice calmer when he spoke.

“Have you had to kill anyone yet?”

“No. Kitty's death was an accident, out of my hands. But I feel it's inevitable, don't you? I could have easily killed _you_ , you know. You trusted me without hesitation.”

“I still trust you.”

Sherlock regarded him carefully, and they sat in silence for a while. Sherlock was the one to break it.

“You really should leave while there's still daylight.”

“No.”

“John, your chances don't improve by staying here. Eventually there won't be enough people –”

“ _Shut up_ , Sherlock.”

“But –”

“No!” John stood up, listening to the dying reverberation of his own voice. He looked down at Sherlock and said, “I'm not leaving while you're sitting here wounded and covered in blood! I don't want to go! I'm sick of running and sick of fighting and sick of this whole goddamn nightmare! Don't you _dare_ tell me I should go!”

“It's okay,” Sherlock said quietly, seemingly unfazed by his outburst.

“No, it's not! It's _not_ okay!” Sherlock got to his feet and stood in front of him. “None of this is okay, Sherlock!”

Sherlock grabbed him by his shoulders, holding him still. But he said nothing. John was waiting for the retort, some sarcastic remark, but Sherlock remained silent, holding eye contact. In the ensuing silence, it was harder to keep up the anger, and John felt something in him fade. His breathing was still far too fast, but it was beginning to slow some. Sherlock's face stayed mostly blank, but John could see the smallest crinkle of worry around his eyes, which smoothed the more John calmed down. He was nearly himself again, Sherlock's grip on his shoulders loosening, when they heard the beeping.

Both of their heads turned to the hole above them, their eyes tracking the sound as it got closer to the ground outside. Sherlock's hands fell to his sides. They looked back at one another, and Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

“No,” John said, cutting him off. Sherlock frowned a little and moved to take a step, and John laid a hand on his chest and said, “Sit down, Sherlock.”

For a second, he thought he would try again, but after glancing down at John's hand, he quietly resumed his seat against the wall.

John emerged from the hiding place, looking around for the parachute, finally seeing it hanging from a low tree limb nearby. When he retrieved and opened it, he saw the familiar canister of water and a cloth.

“Thank god,” he said under his breath.

He picked up the slip of paper. “Keep it up. They love you two. IA.”

When John knelt down beside Sherlock and started cleaning away the blood, Sherlock didn't protest. But after a few minutes, he picked up the slip of paper and read it, and then scoffed and rolled his eyes. The smallest smile twitched at the edge of John's lips. Even out here, Sherlock could manage to be disdainful.

Once the blood was cleared away, John could properly see the wound. It was a nasty gash, but probably looked worse than it was, given how heads wounds were. Still, it annoyed him that he couldn't at least put some stitches on it for good measure.

They passed a while in silence after that, the afternoon light fading into the sick grays of twilight.

“I'm going outside for a minute. I need some air.” John pushed himself to his feet, picking the gun up off the ground before leaving the cave. He sat down on a fallen tree nearby, looking up at the early fake stars and waiting for the nightly fanfare.

It wasn't even a full minute before Sherlock noiselessly appeared, sitting beside him. He offered no comment, but followed the line of John's gaze. John was sure Sherlock had known why he'd come out here, but he had never pegged Sherlock for someone to watch the skies for the list of the dead.

When the last of the light had gone, the music played, and the sky was overtaken. One face graced the sky, and John could only be grateful that Molly's picture was shown the night before. He could never have looked at it.

He winced. So many dead, and so few left.

Sherlock watched him, but said nothing while John watched the picture flash against the sky. John almost spoke, but he didn't. He just let Sherlock observe him in silence. It was just as well. Because whatever he would have said, Sherlock surely already knew, as he always seemed to know.

When the sky was returned to stars, John looked to Sherlock, and it was only then that Sherlock stood and walked away.

***                    *                    ***

They sat against the cave wall, a few feet away from each other. Night fell so early that it felt later than it really was, and neither of them could manage to fall asleep. But it was the safest John had felt since entering the arena. He could almost believe the lie of safety here.

Sherlock had been quiet, saying nothing as John checked his wound in the faint light filtering in from the hole in the rock above them. But his silence was more comfortable than it had been in the past.

Now and then, John would glance over at him, and would see him staring into space, his eyes glazed over. Sometimes his fingers would tap out patterns on his leg, and he would squint a little like he was trying to read in the dark.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“Multiple topics at once. I have many things filed away. Passes the time.”

John laughed a little under his breath, still watching Sherlock, who continued to stare out in front of him.

“You know, I hardly know anything about you. I don't think anyone really knows about you.” Sherlock finally looked at him, his face unreadable. “You hardly ever talk about yourself.”

“You never say anything to me about yourself, either.”

“I don't have to. You already know it.” Sherlock gave a small raise of his eyebrows, conceding.

“As I said in the Capitol, there's little sense in getting to know people who are going to die.”

“Yeah. But since we're not planning on killing each other, it couldn't hurt. What else do you have to do?”

“I can't imagine what you would want to know.”

John shrugged. “It's just nice to be able to talk to someone and actually know who you're talking to, Sherlock. Sometimes I wonder. I remember the way people talked about you back home. They never had anything nice to say about you, but I'm wondering why. You haven't given me any indication you're a bad person. A lot to put up with, maybe, but not bad.”

“Good and bad are relative terms. And you said so yourself. They don't know me.”

“Would you even want them to?”

“What good would it do? They've never interested me. Dull, run of the mill. What would I say to them?”

“You manage to talk to me.”

“ _You_ are not dull.”

John paused for a moment before trying to brush the comment off like it was nothing. “You know, you're probably not going to win any friends back home if they play the 'dull' remark.”

He scoffed. “ _Friends_? I don't have friends. I find it highly unlikely that that would change if I were to return home.” He fell silent, frowning as he fiddled with a loose string on his jacket. “Perhaps I have one.”

“What?”

“One friend. But it's all irrelevant anyway,” he said with a dismissive flick of his hand.

There was no way to know if there were cameras on them. Probably were, knowing the Capitol. But John couldn't shake the feeling of how _private_ this place felt despite that. Even being monitored, the sense of privacy was overwhelming. If he tried hard enough, he could almost pretend that this was a place in the woods outside of District 12, and that there weren't monsters and horrors outside.

He'd never been one to watch the Games much when he was home. But he knew many people who watched religiously, even though the death and bloodshed always made them cringe and cry, always made them feel sick. If they were on screen now, piped into everyone's homes, were the people watching touched with a sense of safety and privacy too, just as they were touched by fear when they watched people die?

***                    *                    ***

A few hours later, they were sitting a few feet closer. Sherlock still hadn't said much, always redirecting the conversation to John. John knew what he was doing, avoiding sharing any details, but he didn't mind. He answered Sherlock's questions, and was always happy when he could get a few words out of him in response.

Even better were the rare occasions that he could draw a smile out of him.

The kiss was never supposed to happen. There had been so many long glances, so many times eyes had flitted to mouths and hands. There had been the steadily lessening space between them. There had been more than one instance of breath catching, but still, it wasn't supposed to have happened. But it had, and so easily.

It was adrenaline. That was all. Just adrenaline and timing. Or, that's what John told himself. But when Sherlock looked back at him, trying to slow his breathing back to normal, he found that excuse harder and harder to believe.

***                    *                    ***

Sherlock insisted John sleep the first shift later that night. While it was true that he was more used to sleep deprivation than John, that had little to do with his offer. It took some convincing, but finally John agreed to at least try to sleep for a few hours. He gave Sherlock the gun after making sure he knew how to shoot it.

As soon as John drifted off, Sherlock went outside.

He sat where they had sat earlier, hating the fabricated forest sounds. Nothing was real. That had bothered him since day one, that the whole arena, while realistic feeling enough, was all just something created by someone with far too much time on their hands.

Nothing was real.

***                    *                    ***

When John woke up a couple hours later, he came outside and sat down with Sherlock. He said something, probably telling him he needed to sleep, but Sherlock didn't hear a word he said.

Why now, of all times? Such inconvenience. Why did human beings have to be so messy? Why couldn't they all be as carefully planned and timed as the arenas and the parades?

John didn't say anything else. They were always okay with comfortable silence. He was the only person who had never seemed to feel the need to fill every waking second with words. Right then, Sherlock was incredibly grateful for that.

“Only the Capitol could make woods in the middle of winter so noisy at night. I wish they'd turn down the damn volume,” John said, more to himself than to Sherlock. Sherlock quirked a smile. John said Sherlock had the observational skills, that he knew everything with a glance, but John knew the insides of people's heads just as well, even if he didn't intend to know them.

The second kiss shouldn't have happened either, yet it came even easier than the first.

Sherlock could see the instant John began to consider the implications, the slightest change in his eyes, only inches from Sherlock's. His hand was still on Sherlock's face as he ran through the realizations that Sherlock had thought of hours ago.

John brought his face close to Sherlock's, almost cheek to cheek, and said in a voice so quiet that even the Capitol would have difficulty picking it up:

“Playing the game?”

Sherlock looked out into the woods, nodding. It was an excuse, and both of them knew it. But allowing it to be anything else, anything except the game, it would have made it all too real. And given their fates in the arena, the awful truth of missed opportunities and canceled futures, it was easier to pretend they believed the act than to admit anything more.

Anything but the game would just put them at a dangerous disadvantage.

***                    *                    ***

John went out for drinking water the next morning, carrying the canister Irene had sent. He nearly tripped four times walking down to the river. He mentally chastised himself. This was why this was all a bad idea. He couldn't afford to have his mind split. The only focus should be survival. Not...whatever this was.

He shook his head, bending down and letting the cold water flood into the canister. The river didn't look dangerous. He was still having trouble imaging how Kitty had drowned in it. But Sherlock was rarely wrong about these sorts of things, so he still made sure to pay closer attention to the wet rock around the river than he had previously.

He was halfway back when he heard a crashing in the woods. Seconds later, a man burst through the trees, stopping when he saw John's gun pointed at him. The man hadn't come quietly, blundering and nervous. He was wearing glasses, one lens cracked. Mike.

“It's okay,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “Go ahead.” He spoke breathlessly. “Kill me. I'm going to die. It might as well be you.”

John swallowed hard, lowering his gun. All he could see when he looked at him was Molly. This was the man she'd spoken so fondly of. This was the person she'd practically considered family.

“I'm not going to kill you, Mike.” The man frowned, too confused to be relieved. “Go.”

“Why? Why are you letting me leave?”

“Molly. She saved my life.”

His face crumpled some, and his eyes were glazed with tears. “We were together, at the beginning of it. We got separated. I couldn't protect her.”

“I couldn't protect her either.” Mike nodded, understanding. “Now, please, go.”

“Thank you.”

John stared at the ground. He couldn't bring himself to say “you're welcome.” Not under these circumstances.

He watched as Mike set off through the woods at a slower pace. Not being chased actively, then. But that didn't mean he wasn't running from something.

***                    *                    ***

When John told Sherlock who he had seen, he did so in a perfunctory manner, in few words. He set the canister and his gun down wordlessly.

But Sherlock saw through these carefully carried out actions as he saw through everything and everyone. He laid his hand on John's shoulder, drawing his eyes up from the ground.

John took a strained breath and finally just leaned into him, hugging him tightly for just a few seconds. It was enough to take Sherlock by surprise, and when John stepped away, he looked back to the ground, staring at the gun.

Sherlock heard the beeping of a parachute before John did, and before he could protest, went to retrieve it himself.

Inside was a canister similar to the one Irene had sent the water in, but this one was filled with a cream. The note read: “Wouldn't want to scar up that pretty face, would we? IA.” Sherlock gave a halfhearted smirk as he went back inside.

John looked at him expectantly, and when Sherlock held out the canister to show him, John immediately took it from his hands and sat Sherlock down, kneeling in front of him to apply the medication, welcoming the distraction.

When he was satisfied, his fingers still lingered at Sherlock's temple.

***                    *                    ***

That night, John and Sherlock sat in their now usual place, watching the sky in silence.

When Mike's face appeared in the sky, John cringed. Sherlock saw it. John clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. He could feel Sherlock's hand flat on his back, the closest he could manage to a soothing gesture for someone as restrained as him. But when John looked at him, Sherlock was staring at the ground, and for the first time in the arena, he looked truly sad. But was it for Mike's sake, or Molly's? Or was it for John's?

***                    *                    ***

When John tried to sleep that night, Sherlock didn't leave, didn't go outside to keep watch. He stayed, leaning against the cave wall beside John. After a while of trying to get comfortable on the rock, John sat up, rolling his shoulders to work out the kinks, and sat back against the wall as well.

“How can anyone ever recover from this?” John asked, shaking his head. “How do victors live with themselves?”

“No one lives. And no one recovers.”

John leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder, grabbing his hand and winding their fingers together.

“It's a sick game.”

“It _is_ a game to them, John. I can't say the same for the tributes. For tributes, it's all too real. All of it is too real.”

“At least the hallucinations weren't.”

“Hmm. It's a poor consolation. But yes. At least they weren't. They were unpleasant.”

“Wait,” John said, sitting up straighter. “Were you there? When I shot that mine?”

“Yes. Don't you remember?”

“I thought you weren't real. I saw so many things, I just thought...well, I saw you twice. So I didn't think I'd seen you at all. Thought they were both hallucinations.”

“I told you to run.”

John nodded. “I thought I imagined it.”

“You said you saw me twice?”

“Yeah. The second time, though, I saw you dead.”

“Thank goodness it was only a hallucination, then.”

John put his head back down. “I wish it was all a hallucination. One big bad dream. Or a real show, like a scripted one where the people don't actually die, their characters just don't come back.”

“Unfortunately, John, following a script has never been an option. It's _all_ too real.”

Even John could hear what he wasn't saying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Landslide](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_CwT7p8-e8)


	8. The Thieving Magpie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eventually, Sherlock would have to find a way to leave him, to let himself be struck down by whatever the Capitol had waiting in the woods. John had to go home. Couldn't he see that?"

 

“We can't stay here forever, you know,” John said.

“All they want is to be entertained. Surely we're entertaining enough.”

“They'll drive us out. You know that.”

“Yes. They will.”

“Should we leave on our own terms?”

“I suppose that would be the better option.”

“Together.”

“What?”

“Leave together. If we wait for them to drive us out we'll be separated somehow. They'll make sure.”

Sherlock stared at John. “Leaving, going off into the woods together, it gives us a better chance at beating anyone that comes along, two against one and all that. But what about after they're all gone?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Sherlock.”

***                    *                    ***

“How many are left?” John held the gun at his side as they walked through the woods.

“What makes you think I know?”

“You've been keeping track.”

“I don't know how many died when I was unconscious, but there can't be more than four or five of us left here in total, statistically. It isn't likely.”

“Hmm.”

“Of course most of the Careers are dead, so the competition is blessedly –” John had stopped in his place and was staring at something on the ground. “John?”

“Look at this.” He waved him over. Sherlock stood behind him, glancing over his shoulder.

The afternoon light was fading, slanting through the trees and casting shadows on the ground, but an indentation was still visible in the dirt. Sherlock frowned at it.

“A paw print,” John said, bending down and running a finger around the edge of a claw mark.

“Yes, but of what?” John looked up at him. “It appears canine.”

“What, a dog? Since when do woods like this have dogs in them?”

“The Capitol creates, John. When was the last time you saw a domestic dog with a print that large?”

John held his hand over the print, comparing. “Government mutt?”

“Perhaps. I would keep that gun at the ready, if I were you.” Sherlock extended a hand, helping John to his feet. As he stood, a rumbling noise came from somewhere far off in the arena, echoing in the hills. They looked toward the sound.

“Thunder?”

“I don't think so.”

The noise came again, clearer this time, but still very far off. A growl. It was followed by a single high-pitched scream. And then the cannon.

John finally let go of Sherlock's hand, staring off into the woods. No flocks of birds, no sound from the forest at all.

“Let's go.”

***                    *                    ***

By the time night truly arrived, they were both on edge. They stopped in what appeared to be a safe place in the woods – a relative term, of course – surrounded by small trees and brush.

John had been jumpy all evening and refused to even attempt sleep. Usually Sherlock would have argued, but he was having trouble finding sleep appealing himself. He had taken to pacing around the small clear space in their patch of woods.

Now and then there would be a noise, rustling in the leaves or a twig breaking, and it would set them off a bit, even though it always turned out to be something innocuous.

During a lull, John said, “Does the sky look darker to you?”

“It's the middle of the night, John.”

“No, I mean the stars.” He pointed up. “Don't they usually have more stars up than this? And the moon was full last night, so where is it now? Why are they making it darker?”

Sherlock followed his finger up, staring at the sky. “It all looks the same to me.”

“For someone as observant as you...”

“I don't care about stars and planets. Unnecessary information. No need to waste my time on it.” John let his hand fall and smiled at him, laughing a little under his breath. “What?” He shook his head. “It's just space.”

“ _Just_ space.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Another noise came from the forest, but louder than all the times before. It didn't stop, but became a continuous crashing sound, growing closer and closer. John rose to his feet, leveling the gun in the direction of the noise.

A man burst out of the trees. Sherlock remembered him. Henry, a tribute from one of the richer districts. Even in the dim light, Sherlock could see the blood. The man was raving, on the verge of screaming but never making a sound. He was hyperventilating, bleeding profusely from multiple places, and when he raised his arms out in front of him toward them, there was a bloody stump where his hand should have been. He was crying, desperately trying to get the words out.

John had taken a couple of steps back and was staring at Henry with a look of horror on his face. He was about to step forward, to say something or try to help, when Henry finally let out a tortured scream.

“Go! Go now! The hound is coming! Get out!” He sank to his knees, repeating again and again, “ _the hound the hound_.” It came out as a terrible gurgling sound, blood distorting his speech. “Run!” John and Sherlock seemed rooted to their places, locked on Henry. He looked up at them once more, his skin growing darker by the second as he bled. “Run!” The word came out strangled, and a crashing came from the brush behind him. John and Sherlock's heads jerked up at the sound, and with one look to each other, they turned away from Henry Knight and ran.

***                    *                    ***

They heard the cannon less than a minute later, nearly overshadowed by the growling and the sound of Henry shrieking once before he died.

The growls surrounded them as they crashed through the forest, a trick of the way the sound carried, making it sound like there were hundreds of hounds at their heels. They stumbled through the woods, trying to find their way, but really just running blind. More than once they had to grab on to each other to stabilize themselves.

Then the growl came from in front of them, and they skidded to a halt. In the shadows of the trees, John saw the faintest glow of red eyes, and a hulking black mass stalking through the woods around them. It would fade from view, disappearing into the dark, in and out like static. The growls came from a different direction every time.

John and Sherlock shifted, standing back to back, rotating as they heard the growls, the vicious snaps of unseen teeth. John held the gun out, aiming at nothing. It never stayed in view long enough to get a lock on it, always vanishing from sight.

The stars continued to blink out of existence above them.

Black on black on black. John kept swinging the gun in the direction of the growls, praying they would stay in one place long enough for him to shoot. But then what if the noise was tricking him and he wasn't even aiming in the right direction?

And then he saw the flash of red as the dim light hit its eyes, and without thinking, he shot.

He heard a yelp, felt Sherlock spin around beside him. The yelp turned into a snarl. John pushed at Sherlock, urging him to run, and then took off after him as he heard the snarl become a growl again.

The shadow chased them.

***                    *                    ***

They broke through the treeline, running without thought for the stretch of wide, shallow river in the middle of the clearing, the water splashing around their feet. Sherlock almost kept going, but when John stopped, he did too, holding his knife out in front of him, knowing it would do little good against a beast like this.

John had turned back, facing the forest they'd just escaped from, and he had his gun out, glaring, his shoulders tight.

Within seconds, the sound of breaking wood announced the beast as it came at them. And then the sound of a gunshot as John fired at the hulking shadow. Sherlock saw the eyes, saw them as they sank close to the ground, the monster landing with a thud. For a moment, Sherlock thought it was crouching, and that it would leap back up at go at them again, but the eyes remained unmoving and unseeing.

Sherlock could hear John's labored breathing, and as the stars and moon were brought back to the sky, he saw John's wide eyes, and his now trembling hands. The face of someone who took a risk, who shot blind and could only pray he hit his target.

It was a while before John lowered the gun, and when he did, the full effect of what he'd done completely took over him. He walked out of the water, standing over the body of the animal, his finger still on the trigger should it come to life again. But when he saw that it really was dead, blood flowing from its shattered skull, he stepped away and sank to his knees, setting his gun down beside him on the ground. He clapped his hand over his mouth and stared at the hound.

Sherlock walked to the water's edge, examining the beast. It was bigger than either of them, certainly enormous compared to John, and was covered in thick black fur. Its eyes were red – that wasn't an adrenaline induced exaggeration – and Sherlock took a second to be irritated with the dramatic flair the Capitol felt the need to insert into everything. It had jaws that could easily crush bone, blood around its mouth and snout, from Henry Knight, presumably. And in the center of its skull, a bullet hole. An inch or two either way would have only made it angrier.

“Stand up slowly, Twelve. And kindly drop that knife of yours, Sherlock dear.”

They froze, their gaze turning downriver where Jim Moriarty stood holding a bow, its arrow pointed at John. He was backed by the distant roar of the falls behind him, an elaborate backdrop in the masquerade.

John slowly rose to his feet, the hound forgotten. Sherlock saw him glance down at his gun, a fleeting glance.

“I wouldn't. I _really_ wouldn't,” Moriarty said with a grin. “End of the line, you two.”

“Two against one,” Sherlock said.

“I'm a Career tribute, Sherlock. I could kill you both before either of you reached me. And you know it. My aim is better than yours.” He looked down the line of his arrow. “Come here, Johnny boy.” John frowned, confused. Jim spoke in singsong. “Don't test my _patience_.” John held his hands up and walked slowly into the water, standing where Moriarty directed him to, a few feet to the side in front of him. “There we go.” He looked back at Sherlock, the twisted smile of his hallucinations staring back at him. But this time he couldn't tell himself it wasn't real.

John stared at Sherlock too, and Sherlock had never seen someone so resigned.

“I've just loved these little Games, haven't you, Sherlock? Alas all great things must come to an end, and I have a train home to catch.” He laughed, giddy. “I'll be a hero back home. They'll talk about me for _decades_. What all have you done in the Games? Because I bet it can't hold a candle to the things I've done. So calculated, so well-executed, if you'll pardon my word choice. What would you say the highlight will be? I'm going to say it was that girl. That little thing I gutted. They'll be talking about that for a long time, I think.”

Sherlock saw John stiffen, and when he looked at him, the resignation had hardened to rage. He watched John's jaw clench, saw the moment he lost all sense of self-preservation.

Moriarty didn't have a chance to stop him. John whirled around and disarmed him, sending the bow and its arrow into the water. Sherlock raced to grab the gun, running out into the water, ready to fire at Jim. But in that small interval, Moriarty had pulled a knife. His bow and arrow lost to the falls behind them, he had grabbed John, holding onto him, with the blade of the knife across his throat.

John's anger had waned, but only slightly. He looked at Sherlock with apology.

Moriarty looked at the side of John's face, just able to see his expression from his position behind John. He turned to Sherlock, seemingly unfazed by the assault.

“Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets.”

Sherlock tried to aim, to get a clear shot, but Moriarty kept moving just enough. The risk was too high. There was no way he could risk shooting John.

“Shame about that little girl, no? But I bet it made for a _wonderful_ show.”

“This isn't just a show. People have died,” Sherlock said through his teeth.

“That's what people _do_!” His shout echoed. He shut his eyes for a second, gaining his composure again before opening them, his head lolling back and forth on his neck.

“You're insane.”

Jim looked him in the eye, raising his eyebrows. “You're just getting that now?” He feigned a dramatic sigh. “All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've _beaten_ you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy.” He ran the edge of the blade along John's throat, threatening but never breaking the skin. Sherlock could see the faintest evidence of John shuddering as Moriarty held the tip of the knife over the pulse point on his neck. “Do you know what happens next?”

Sherlock steadied the gun in his hands. “Oh, let me guess. I get killed.”

“No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway. No. I'm gonna _burn_ you.” He lowered the knife, keeping a firm grip on John as he held the point of the blade over John's chest. “I'll burn _the heart_ out of you.” He flicked the knife up, putting a tear in the fabric.

“I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.”

John swallowed hard as Moriarty made small cut in the skin on his chest.

“But we both know that's not quite true.”

Silence hung between them.

Moriarty began to slowly back up, dragging John with him, the knife once again held poised against his throat. “Let me just get this out of the way. And then me and you, we'll have some real fun,” he said, sneering.

Sherlock saw the shot and took it.

He thought he could almost hear the sound of the bullet hitting his skull.

Moriarty's body jerked back with the impact, the knife nicking John's neck before it fell out of his hand. Blood from the bullet hole in his head had sprayed onto John, spattering across the side of his face. His eyes were wide open, and he remained frozen in place.

Sherlock watched Moriarty's body fall backwards, splashing as it hit the water, and then disappearing from view as it was pushed over the falls by the current.

Even though his body was gone, Sherlock could almost see an imprint of him like a ghost, still standing by John holding a knife to his neck.

Holding out one hand, he beckoned to John, urging him to come forward. He would have just said so, but the words kept dying in his throat. John nodded stiffly, taking a few shaky steps toward him. Sherlock closed the distance and met him halfway, grabbing him by the arm.

They looked toward the falls, stepping a little closer as Sherlock looked over. John stared at the very few feet of space there had been between himself and a similar fate. Sherlock gave his arm a squeeze in an attempt at being reassuring.

Sherlock squinted down at the rocks below as he heard the cannon. He could just make out the outline of a body.

Sherlock led John back away from the falls' edge, his hand on his back. He still had the gun in his other hand, and he almost dropped it in the water when he realized.

“All right?”

John was watching him with concern.

“Yes, yes, all right. Fine.”

He was positive John didn't believe him.

There was a terrible stillness to the arena despite the water rushing around their ankles.

“We're the only ones left, John.”

John shook his head. “No.” It wasn't an exclamation of distress so much as a statement of fact.

Sherlock stared at the gun in his hand, thinking. Finally he handed it to John, who took it and ran his hands over it for a second before he realized what Sherlock was suggesting. His head shot up.

“No, _no_ , Sherlock. Absolutely _not_.”

“There are no ways out, John. One person leaves. People need you back home far worse than they need me. It's the only rational choice.”

“There is nothing rational about this!” Whatever had made him resigned, even scared earlier, had vanished. “I'm not going to kill you, Sherlock! I'm not!”

Sherlock stood like a child being scolded, staring down at the water. “John –”

“No!” Sherlock looked up and saw that John was no longer yelling at him. He glared up at the night sky, pointing at it accusingly. “You want your victor? Strike one of us down! I know you can! If you want it that badly, then _do it_! _Do it_!” Sherlock tried to grab hold of John, to calm him down, but John jerked out of his grasp. “Come on!” John took the gun and threw it into the water beside him. “Choose your goddamned victor!”

“John!”

He looked at Sherlock, his eyes wild. “They have to have their victor, yeah? They can pick. I'm not killing you. And you're not killing me. If they want a victor so badly, let them be the ones to do the killing.” He turned back to the sky, waiting.

Sherlock stared at John a moment longer before walking a few steps closer to the falls, slowly. He looked over them, at the faint outline of Jim's body below. If he hit the rocks just right...

A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “No.” John squeezed his arm. “No, don't you even fucking think about it. If one of us dies, the blood can be on their hands.” Sherlock felt him loosen his grip slightly, realizing how tight a hold he had had on him. He asked in a softer voice, “We have never been enemies, Sherlock. And we're not going to have them turn us into that. Do you understand me?” Sherlock nodded.

John grabbed his hand, raising it above them like they had done in the parade. It felt so long ago.

Sherlock waited, waited to be struck down. The Capitol would never kill a fan favorite like John. Just as well. That's who Sherlock would have chosen to go home too. Would their death blow come from another hound? No, too tricky, too unpredictable. Might kill John too. Same went for a flash flood in the river. Lightning? Even that was imprecise at best.

John looked at the sky, still holding their hands up, and yelled, “Choose your victor!”

The sky gave no answer. Sherlock wondered how long it would be before John gave up. Before he realized there was no way out. Eventually, Sherlock would have to find a way to leave him, to let himself be struck down by whatever the Capitol had waiting in the woods. John had to go home. Couldn't he see that?

Sherlock was beginning to think he should just break away, just run as fast as he could and hope it ended quickly. But when he looked over to John, the defiance and anger on his face was incongruous with the gentle grip on Sherlock's hand, and he knew the last thing John wanted was for him to leave. Still, what someone wanted wasn't always what was best for them.

They both started at the sound that suddenly came crashing from the sky. A voice that, when it spoke, threw both of them into shocked silence. They let their hands fall, still clasped together, John's face going blank with fear rather than relief.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, the Victors of the 75th Hunger Games, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.”


	9. When I Heard at the Close of the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Even Sherlock Holmes was not impervious to everything, no matter how hard he tried to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [When I Heard at the Close of the Day](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/180861)

 

“When I head at the close of the day how my name had been receiv'd

with plaudits in the capitol, still it was not a happy night for me that follow'd.”

– Walt Whitman

 

 

“John, you are supposed to be the _sensible_ one,” Mycroft said, pacing around the train car, so on edge that he had even put down his umbrella.

John sat very still, unable to muster a response. Sherlock sat next to him, equally silent, thinking intently.

“What exactly do you have to say for yourself?” Mycroft towered over him, his face twisting very unattractively.

John held up his hands. “I did what I thought was right.”

“ _You were mistaken_.”

“Look, I don't need this, not from you. What's done is done. They could have just killed one of us if that's what they wanted so badly.”

“You're missing the point, John. They _could not_.”

John scoffed. “They've proven time and again that they can do whatever they want.”

“Not without making the two of you martyrs. People are so simple, so I was sure you would understand.”

“Understand what?”

“There would have been a bigger outrage had they killed one of you than there would be if they allowed two victors,” Irene said from her perch in the chair across from John and Sherlock. “You couldn't have known. The Capitol was in an uproar over you two. And once you staged that display at the finale, John, that sealed the deal. Remember, they've made exceptions in the past with other Games, especially Quarter Quells.”

“Then why is _he_ ,” John pointed a finger at Mycroft, who bristled at the gesture, “so bent out of shape?”

“The Capitol citizens may love you two, but they're not the ones in control, are they? That stunt of yours, John, it's made some people very angry.”

“Not my problem.”

“It will become your problem,” Mycroft said. “People in places of power being upset with you is not a good position to be in. And you,” he said, drawing Sherlock's attention, “you have certainly put me in an awkward position. Did you ever consider that your actions would reflect badly on me?” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft looked between the two of them. “When you have interviews, when you go on your tour, we will be working damage control. Otherwise you will not be safe.”

“But you said so yourself that they don't want martyrs,” John said.

“No. But as I'm sure you're aware, there are many options available. Do you really want to consider what they might do in lieu of killing either of you?”

John fell silent, trying to block out all the things that immediately came to mind.

“Why were they so reluctant to just kill one of us in the arena?” Sherlock asked. Everyone stared at him. It was the most he'd spoken since they were declared victors.

Irene chuckled. “Are you serious?”

“Yes?”

Irene shared a look with John, and even Mycroft. “Everyone loves a love story, Mr. Holmes. You two played your parts well. The audience adores you.”

Sherlock frowned. “Sentiment. That's what kept us alive. People getting...attached to us?”

Irene smirked. “Well it certainly wasn't your warmth and likeability.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Moriarty was good, but he was heartless. He was unstable. The public doesn't root for a man like that. All they want is a good show. Consider yourself lucky. If it weren't for John, the public wouldn't have even noticed if you had died.”

“We are not any more lucky by being here than you are, Miss Adler.”

Her face, usually a mix of playfulness and scheming, was suddenly very dark and sad. But it only lasted a second, and just as quickly, she glanced at Mycroft as she rose from her seat. She said to him, putting on a hollow version of her usual closed-lip smile, “What do you think we should all wear when we get back to the district, Mr. Holmes? I'm leaning toward my battle dress.” She turned and winked at John and Sherlock before walking out of the room.

***                    *                    ***

“Still awake?” The doors to the car whooshed closed behind John. The lights had been turned down, and Sherlock hadn't bothered to turn them back up. He sat on the sofa as he had earlier. The only indication that he had even moved was the change from his sleek clothes into cotton pajamas and a sweeping robe.

“You sound far more surprised than you should, given what you know about me.”

John crossed the room and sat beside Sherlock on the sofa. He felt a twinge of pain in his leg as he walked the last few feet. Probably the beginning of all the aches and pains he would have now that the adrenaline was gone. Everything would hurt.

“Usually I am the one antagonizing Mycroft, but I must say, you have done a wonderful job.” Sherlock didn't look at him, still blatantly pretending to be thinking about something else.

John gave him a weak smile. “He's probably right, though.” Sherlock gave the tiniest nod and flick of his hand. _It doesn't matter, it's too late now_. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Drop it, Sherlock. You may perform in front of everyone else, but don't try to perform in front of me.”

Sherlock said nothing, but John thought his expression softened some, lost a little of its high-contrast harshness. John watched as he took one slow, deep breath.

Even Sherlock Holmes was not impervious to everything, no matter how hard he tried to be.

***                    *                    ***

John stayed for a while longer, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock would talk if and when he wanted to, even if it wasn't tonight. They were both too tired to do much more than lean into one another, bookended together on the sofa. John began to fall in and out of a light sleep, jerking himself awake every time he felt himself nodding off. Sherlock was always still beside him, wide awake, and apparently, deep in thought.

The dim light did nothing for the dark circles under his eyes.

Finally, John gave up trying to stay awake, and told Sherlock he was going to go to bed. Sherlock just nodded.

When John lay down, he thought the pain in his leg was a little worse than earlier, and wondered if he had sprained something in the arena.

It was hard to believe that it was finally safe to sleep again. So many nights of having to be on guard and running on nothing but adrenaline and panic. John thought it would actually take him hours to fall asleep, but exhaustion beat adrenaline, and it took only minutes.

Sometime hours later, he was woken up by movement nearby, and his eyes flew open, the dreams of the arena fading as he realized where he was.

He propped himself up on his hands and looked at the other side of his bed. Sherlock had curled up on top of the blankets next to him, practically in a ball, facing the other direction.

“Sherlock?” He didn't answer. “I know you're awake, Sherlock. I know you can hear me.”

Sherlock didn't acknowledge him, keeping his breathing slow and steady to appear asleep.

John reached out, his hand hovering above Sherlock before he rested it on his hip. He felt the slightest tensing of muscles beneath his palm, relaxing after a few seconds. “Just sleep.”

“I'm fine. I'm absolutely fine.”

“Okay. I'll be here if you need me.” John withdrew his hand, lying back down.

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock asked in a bleary voice.

“No reason at all.”

***                    *                    ***

When John woke up early that morning, Sherlock had turned to face him. He was asleep, with his face pressed hard into the pillow. He'd never even bothered to get under the blankets.

He wasn't a dramatic mysterious figure. He wasn't the terrible person so many people at home believed him to be. He also wasn't the charismatic and charming person the general public thought he was unless he chose to be.

Unfeeling? No. Intimidating? Maybe. Pompous? Probably. Extraordinary? Absolutely.

Sherlock Holmes was many things, but so many were things that other people made him out to be, when the reality was far simpler.

John looked at Sherlock. It was hard not to see him as the injured boy brought to him all those years ago. Now, finally removed from the pomp and circumstance of the Capitol and the brutality of the arena, the reality of this man was so obvious that he wondered how no one else seemed to see it.

Just human after all.

***                    *                    ***

When John stepped off the train, he nearly tripped when his leg fell out from under him. He assured everyone he was fine, but he walked away trying to hide the limp.

***                    *                    ***

John, Sherlock, and Irene all went their separate ways when they reached Victors' Village, each shutting their own door behind themselves.

Somehow, the new home was poor consolation. John only gave Harry a passing glance before going to his new bedroom.

It was cold. And empty.

***                    *                    ***

Over the next few days, John saw hardly any of the others. Harry didn't try to make him talk about anything.

He'd passed Irene while walking around outside, and she'd put on her smiling face. But John had lived with an addict long enough to know the signs, and he wasn't surprised when he saw the end of one of her syringes sticking out of her pocket. They both politely pretended that John hadn't noticed. She said a few lines of shallow conversation to him, nothing of any substance. When he looked at her, at the dark circles, at the way she almost nervously tapped her fingers on her arm, at the tense edges of her smile, he wondered if he was seeing what his life would become. She'd survived the arena, and what good had it done for her?

Sherlock didn't come out of his house. More than once, John stood on his front porch, debating whether or not he should attempt to draw him out. And every time, his hand would stop inches from the door, and he would turn and walk away.

***                    *                    ***

When the front door opened a few days later, John thought at first that it was Harry before he remembered she'd long since passed out in her room upstairs. Her methods of getting through the day were sounding more and more appealing.

He forced himself out of his own room into the hall. Mary stood just inside, the door shut behind her. She looked around the house, seemingly indifferent to the opulence. When her eyes finally landed on him, he saw the tightness in her jaw.

“You couldn't even come by once?”

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm sorry.”

“Have you even left Victors' Village once since you got back?”

He shook his head. “I haven't really seen anyone either. I just...I couldn't do it, Mary. Not yet.”

She walked down the hall toward him, her foosteps pulling creaks and groans from the floorboards. She hugged him to her tightly, saying under her breath, “I'm glad you're back. You have no idea.” She pulled back, her hands still firmly holding his shoulders. “We were all so worried, John.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't. We thought you were going to die. No one ever expects their tribute to come back.” Her hands dropped, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “You can't imagine what it all looked like from here. There were so many times we thought you'd be killed. And we had to see what the arena did to you. We saw you shouting at the sky. Some of us wondered if you would come back in one piece if you came back at all.” She paused, her eyes running over his face like she was looking for a wound, some big obvious physical manifestation of all he'd seen. “You should have seen the finale the way we did. That was the first time we thought you might come home. Because Sherlock Holmes seemed hell bent on making sure you did.”

“I wonder if that was really such a good thing.”

“John, don't talk like that. Don't. You survived something terrible. But you survived.” He didn't have it in him to argue with her. There was no way she could understand. “You know the whole Capitol is in love with you two.”

He nodded. “Mycroft said as much.”

“The love story angle, huh?”

“It worked, didn't it?”

“Yeah. It was a gamble, but it sure paid off. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to find an act that would better his chances.”

“Yeah, some act.”

“Was that your battle plan from day one?”

“No. Not really. Irene just told us to make people like us.”

“Guess she isn't as unreliable as everyone says, then. You seen him since you've been back? Sherlock, I mean?”

“No.” A sharp edge came into his voice.

“Why not?”

“After what we went through? Besides, we'll see plenty of each other from now on.”

“I hope you do. And not just for the Capitol's sake.”

“And why is that?”

She shrugged. “You suit each other. You make a good team. If any two people could have pulled off the impossible, it would be you. They wanted a good show and you provided.”  
  
John had lost track of the conversation, his thoughts still on the word _act_. What Mary couldn't understand, what John had only just realized the night before, was that Sherlock hadn't found an act for the sake of bettering his own chances of survival. He'd found an act that would better John's.

***                    *                    ***

Mary talked him into a short hunting trip in the woods the next morning. She had been visibly unsure when she asked him, thinking perhaps of every possible trigger he could encounter. But John decided the return to his routine might do him good.

His leg hurt more and more as they walked. At one point, it buckled beneath him, and he fell to his knees.

Mary reached out a hand to help him up, but didn't comment.

 

* * *

 

John didn't even knock on the door. He let himself in before he lost his nerve, his free hand gripped tightly around his walking stick. Harry had called it a cane and he'd snapped at her, even though she was right. It had just gotten so hard to walk without help since he'd come home.

Sherlock's house was dark save for one beam of yellow light coming from the living room. The only sound was a clock ticking and John's own steps.

He turned into the living room. Sherlock sat on a sofa, still and staring straight ahead of himself as he had on the train. He was as neat as ever, not a hair out of place, but he hadn't bothered to change out of pajamas, and the hollows of his cheekbones seemed more pronounced than usual.

“Sherlock.” When he didn't respond, John walked across the room and stood directly in his line of sight. “You've been in here for days. People are starting to worry about you.”

“Psychosomatic.” His voice was rough from disuse.

“What?”

“Your limp. You were never injured in your leg. It was your shoulder. The limp is psychosomatic. So is the tremor in your hand, probably. Must have made shooting difficult the other day.”

John shifted uncomfortably on his feet, his hand flexing at his side. “You need to get out of the house, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“Because people are wondering what's wrong. People will talk.”

“People do little else.”

“Aren't you worried?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Everyone thinks you've lost it. You haven't seen anyone or spoken to anyone. It's not good.”

“Do people expect returned tributes to be particularly sociable immediately following the Games?”

“No, but if you don't try to ease your way back into the world, it's just going to get harder.”

“And you would be the authority of course. You've been out of your own home only a handful of times, and you've only left the Village once.”

John gave a frustrated sigh. “Sherlock, soon we're going to be paraded around the entire country. If you can't manage to leave the house how are you going to manage that?”

“That is not what is bothering you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being paraded, that is a fact of life. You are not here to tell me what I already know.”

“It's not just _people_ that are starting to worry about you Sherlock. I'm starting to worry about you. What we survived, it breaks people. It's broken people far stronger than either of us.”

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. You always say you're fine, but you aren't. Look what the Games did to Irene. Look what the Games have done to countless people over the years. You aren't immune to it any more than I am. You're pretending you are. And Sherlock, you can't survive like that. You can't keep pretending everything is fine.”

“I don't know why you're still so upset. We both lived. We can get back to our lives. You can do as you always have done, looking out for your family and friends. I can live as I always have. You say people are worried about me. Wrong. The Capitol may have favored me, but the people here do not. I am content to go on living my life as I used to, and I am sure that the rest of the district would just assume I did as well.”

“Christ, Sherlock, you really don't get it, do you? You say we can get back to living our lives like we did before. We _can't_. We'll never be able to live that way again. We survived, and the price of survival is that we don't get to live anymore. Because from now on, our lives are going to be tours and mentoring and being paraded in front of the world for as long as we live. So don't you tell me that our survival was a good thing. It wasn't. It was just better than the alternative.”

“The alternative is always available, even outside the arena.”

“Don't even _suggest_ something like that, Sherlock. Don't.”

“Well –”

“No.”

Sherlock finally looked at him, really looked at him, and John saw the slight redness in his eyes. “So we attend some tedious social functions every year. We smile at the camera and make the Capitol morons cheer. Hardly a massive alteration in lifestyle.”

“We survived because we were lucky. We will have to play this act for the rest of our lives. It's not just a smile at the camera, Sherlock. This act, this trick we pulled, it's the only reason we're alive now.”

“Yes, the _act_ ,” he said distastefully, spitting the word out.

“What exactly do you mean by that?”

Sherlock stood to his feet with the same manic manner as always and looked down at John. He grabbed him by the wrist and kissed him.

When Sherlock pulled away, his face was scrutinizing.

“Pulse elevated,” he said, holding John's wrist up between them. “Pupils dilated.” John jerked his hand away. “Not a real limp, and not an act.” He turned, his robe swishing around him as he sat down again.

“You can be a real bastard, you know.”

“Sentiment is a weakness, John. Surely you know that by now.”

“ _Sentiment_ does not matter right now, Sherlock. What matters is that we have to be able to put up a united front. We have no choice where that's concerned. Anything else, it's a moot point. This isn't something either of us can do alone.”

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

“No. Friends protect people.”

“And is that what you are? A _friend_?”

John pointed an accusing finger at him. “You may have been able to do this before the Games, to just detach and tell yourself there's no sense in getting involved with other people if they're going to die anyway, but you can't do that anymore, Sherlock. Me, Irene, even _Mycroft_. You are going to have to let people into your now very public life. You don't get to lock yourself up and pretend you're not human like everyone else.”

“I still see no point in involving myself with other people. I can play a part in this pageant as always. There is no need to unnecessarily involve myself. Irene Adler spends nearly all of her year in her home in a drugged haze. She only performs when the camera's on her. There is no reason I cannot do the same.”

“It's that easy for you, is it?”

“Yes.”

“You _machine_!”

“I thought I was human. Just like everyone else.”

John froze, the tension leaving his shoulders. Sherlock wore a challenge on his face. The challenge seemed more and more blatant the longer the silence stretched on.

“Maybe I was wrong.”

***                    *                    ***

John said nothing more.

Sherlock stood at the window of his living room, watching John walk home, his hand unconsciously flexing at his side. It was for the best really. At least, that was what Sherlock told himself when he went to sit back down.

The evening light cut through the crack between the curtains. All was quiet. All was calm. So why did it feel so goddamn _hateful_?

Late into the night, he repeated his mantra over and over in his head, as if hoping that thinking it enough would make him believe it was true.

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

***                    *                    ***

It became a cycle inside his head. First he would wonder if he had been too harsh to Sherlock. Then Sherlock was too harsh. He should go back to his house again and try to reach him a second time. But then he would get angry again, and the whole process would repeat itself.

Mary periodically asked after Sherlock, and John's answers were always so curt that eventually she quit asking entirely.

One day John finally saw him outside, skulking over toward Irene's house. He stopped, locking eyes with John for a few seconds. Sherlock was the one to look away. He did it so easily that John almost believed that everything he had said was true, even though John had his doubts. It had felt more like a coping mechanism than honesty.

Still, John had no idea where Sherlock stood. Had he been intentionally patronizing? Was it really all an act?

John had said something to that effect to Mary, and when she insisted that the only solution would just be to go to Sherlock and actually _talk_ to him, he decided he would keep his thoughts to himself.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't even notice Irene was in his house until she turned on all the lights. He squinted, glaring at her as she stood by a lamp, rolling her eyes at him.

“The world is at a standstill,” she said, dragging a chair in front of him and sitting down, legs crossed.

“Last I checked, it was turning perfectly fine.”

“I meant you and John.”

“I know what you meant. However I don't know why you felt the need to break into my house to tell me that.”

“Your door isn't locked.”

“Precisely. So you can quite easily turn around and walk out it.” He gave a wave of his hand. She remained seated, unimpressed.

“Quit being recalcitrant. Now, what did you say to him?”

“Excuse me?”

“I know it was you that started this silly silent treatment. What did you say?” Sherlock bristled, but said nothing, looking away and trying to ignore her.

Irene reached out and grabbed him by the chin and forced him to look at her. “ _Listen to me_.” Her voice was so uncharacteristically serious that when she let go, he begrudgingly stayed where she'd positioned him. “If you two don't start being honest with each other you will be making the whole situation worse for yourselves. When I came back from the arena, I would have killed twenty-three _more_ tributes just to have someone here who knew how I felt that I could turn to. Kate couldn't understand. She still doesn't, really. I scared her to death so many times right after I got back. No one can understand what people like us have been through except those who have experienced it first hand.” She sat back a little in her seat, but she was still leaning forward toward him. “You two have been afforded a rare opportunity. And you're throwing it away for what? A sense of superiority?” She shook her head. “You have the rest of your life ahead of you, and you will be miserable trying to get through it alone. No, don't open your mouth, don't say a word to me. You _will_ be miserable. You're already miserable. And no one here thinks half as much of you as John does. You think you'll find support from anyone else? Do you think your ego will keep the arena from haunting you? Speaking from experience I can assure you that it won't.”

“Your error is in assuming that John Watson and I have attachments to each other.”

“You do. Everyone knows. Even Mary Morstan knows it isn't an act, so I wish the two of you would just quit pretending that it is. Especially you.”

“I do not lend myself to sentiment, Miss Adler.”

“I don't care what you lend yourself to.”

“None of this is your concern. You did your job. Now you can spend the rest of the year in your usual state of drugs and debauchery and _leave me alone_.”

“Perhaps I should tell John that you've been stealing my syringes. It would certainly make him come break the silence, although I can't guarantee that would be the only thing he'd break.” Sherlock's eyes widened. “Did you really think I wouldn't notice?” She reached out and grabbed his arm, pushing the sleeve of his robe back. “Look at that. Matching marks,” she said, giving a cursory glance to her own arm. He jerked away from her grasp.

“It keeps my mind occupied.”

“No, it keeps your mind numb. You'll end up dead that way. So should I tell him? I don't think your sweet little healer would be very pleased with you.” Sherlock crossed his arms and sank a little deeper into his seat. “Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait.”

“You think I'm an emotionally bankrupt junkie?”

“No, I think you're damaged, delusional, and I would say you believed in a higher power, but the closest you come to that is believing in John Watson. That has always been the case. Acts like the one you two pulled are just elaborate disguises agreed upon by two people. What does your act say about you, then?” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Are you feeling exposed?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She gave him a cocky, slightly superior smile. “Attempting to pretend continues to fail you.”

“So, what? You think threatening me will force me into some emotional baring of the heart? I regret to inform you that it will not.”

“I'm not telling you to bare your heart. I'm telling you to get off your high horse. And I'm not threatening you. Yet.” She stood and walked toward the door, stopping with her hand on the knob. She looked over her shoulder. “But if I have to see you staring out your window or him walking around looking like a kicked dog for much longer, don't think I'm above it.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had gotten dressed and made it all the way to his front door before he started feeling doubtful. It took him nearly ten minutes to decide to actually step outside.

John was standing on the front steps, staring at the ground. When he looked up, surprised, Sherlock tried to wipe his own face clear of any hint of shock.

“What, did you hear me walking up?”

“Of course,” he said, feigning indifference.

“We need to talk.”

“Has the woman been to see you?”

“Irene? No, why?”

Sherlock shook his head and stepped aside, waving John in. John stopped a few feet inside, waiting as Sherlock closed the door.

“We can't keep doing this.”

“What do you mean, John?”

“You know what I mean. It'll save time if you quit acting like you don't.”

Sherlock gave a tiny nod of agreement and followed John into the living room. When John sat down on the sofa, Sherlock sat beside him.

“I've been talking to Mary the last few days,” he said, folding his hands as if in prayer. “And I realized I don't know what to tell her.”

“About the Games?”

“About anything. But yes, especially the Games.”

“The woman said she had similar difficulties with the girl she's always around, Kate or whatever her name is.”

John nodded. “What can you tell people who haven't been there?”

“You can tell them as much as you'd like. Just don't expect them to have the faintest idea of what you are actually saying. People are only marginally intelligent on the best of days. Usually they're incapable of understanding the simplest of concepts. So none of us can expect them to understand this.”

“Irene doesn't quite understand either.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why wouldn't she? She lived it just as we did.”

“No, she didn't. Because she always knew she was coming back alone if she came back at all.”

“Isn't that all we could assume for ourselves as well?”

“If we had genuinely believed that, we would have killed each other a long time ago.”

“What? You spent the entirety of the Games just hoping we'd both walk out of the arena alive?”

“Didn't you?”

“No. I hoped _you_ would walk out alive.” John fell silent, watching Sherlock grow more uncomfortable. “I have never been known for my sense of self-preservation, John.” John continued to stare at him, feeling sadder than he had in a long time.

When he finally looked away, he rubbed his hands over his eyes and said, “How are we going to live anymore? Christ, how does anyone come to terms with this? We've killed people, Sherlock. We've seen people die. How are we going to get through the day?”

“Adler seems to favor injections.”

“Don't joke.”

“I'm not joking. People come up with ways to cope. They aren't ideal, but nothing is.”

“I have dreams about the arena.”

“The human brain is complex, and unfortunately, filled with the potential for rather terrible things.”

“Have you had dreams too?”

“I'm not human, remember. I'm a machine.”

John looked up at him, his hands dropping. “I should never have said that.”

“You weren't entirely inaccurate.”

“No, I really shouldn't have said that.”

Sherlock held up a hand to stop the apologies. “To have dreams requires sleep, of which I have never been a fan. But...you are correct in saying that it is a hard reality to live with.”

“I just can't get some of it out of my head.”

“I know.”

“Will it ever go away?”

“No. It won't.”

John nodded, processing information that he surely already knew, but hadn't wanted to accept. “The world is a terrible place.”

Sherlock didn't say what he wanted to: _Large parts of it are, yes_. It was true, but he had a feeling it was the wrong answer to an unasked question. He reached out a hand and laid it on John's shoulder, the closest thing he knew to a comforting gesture.

“We shouldn't have made it out alive,” John said. “We were never supposed to survive.”

“No, but we did.”

“God, we still have the Victory Tour to deal with. Never mind the fact that we'll be mentors now. How are we going to survive _that_?”

“The only response I can think of is a platitude.”

“What?”

“I believe the saying is 'one day at a time,' which aside from being so horribly commonplace, is also probably not that good really, since it doesn't take into account the benefits of careful planning and foresight –”

John laughed, glancing away for a second as he always did when something amused him. He shook his head, smiling at Sherlock. “It'll have to do, though, won't it?”

It had seemed like so long since John had even come close to smiling. This was how he was supposed to look. This was his natural state.

Sherlock's hand shifted from John's shoulder to the back of his neck, John's expression shifting to confusion for one second before Sherlock kissed him.

This kiss was supposed to happen. No cameras, no ulterior motives, impossible to ever explain away with excuses about acts. No way to misinterpret, no way to pretend. The entire country had seen so much of them, but no one could see them now, finally. The world might as well have been only this room.

John's hand on his arm, and then on his face, his thumb brushing over Sherlock's cheek. John pulled back just enough to look him in the eye and say, “Some act.” He smirked, drawing a small smile from Sherlock before he closed the distance again.

They said little the rest of the night. There would be time enough for words and battle plans later. For now, everything was just this quiet, unobtrusive little night, hidden away from the watchful eyes and speeches and parades. And even though no amount of comfort, no amount of privacy could ever make up for all they'd been through, it helped.

***                    *                    ***

The next night, when Sherlock showed up on John's doorstep, he didn't even hesitate to let him in.

And when Sherlock fell asleep next to him that night, he wasn't curled up on top of the blankets, facing away and holding himself apart as he had on the train.

John woke once during the night, dreams shaking him from sleep once again, visions of things he wished he'd never seen. He sat up in his bed, breathing deeply as he tried to calm himself. And then he felt the hand on his back, fingers splayed. Sherlock sat next to him, concerned but unsurprised.

John waited, thinking he would speak, but he remained silent, merely waiting as John's breathing slowed to normal. There was nothing Sherlock could say to make it better. They both knew that.

Sherlock lay back, guiding John with a hand on his shoulder to get him to lie down as well. When he had John settled, he ran his fingers along John's wrist, tracing soothing little patterns there, his eyes willing John to calm down. John's heart finally began to quit pounding, and John saw the smallest change in Sherlock's face, relief as John's pulse beat slower beneath his fingers. Sherlock stayed awake until John drifted back to sleep.

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was still there, sleeping beside him, his fingers still loosely holding his wrist.

John was a healer, but there were limits to those skills. He couldn't heal Sherlock, and he couldn't heal himself. Things would never be all right, not really. These nights wouldn't last forever. Eventually, they would have to be public figures again, over and over for the rest of their lives. But at least they wouldn't have to face it all alone.

It was, and always had been, the two of them against the rest of the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Amy](http://goddammitamy.tumblr.com/) for putting up with all my crap while I wrote this.


End file.
